


Over the Sunset, Into the West (LoTR x ASOIAF)

by FieryMatter



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-28
Updated: 2020-07-19
Packaged: 2021-03-04 04:41:59
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 31,119
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24957802
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FieryMatter/pseuds/FieryMatter
Summary: What if the Númenorean Great Armament from Tolkien's Legendarium arrived at Westeros on the same day Aegon's fleet landed at Blackwater Bay?
Comments: 18
Kudos: 49





	1. Sunrise over the Sunset

**_Home lies ahead._ **

The stars had just disappeared when a fleet sailed out of the mist into an eerily calm sea, having experienced a calamitous storm but hours ago; the roaring winds, and battering waves had finally been silenced. Up ahead, the sky grew brighter with the first rays of morning, heralding the arrival of a new day - an uncertain day, for these weary travellers. Perhaps, just perhaps, they could finally gain what they wish in these new lands, free from past agony. Yet as the sailors steered their great ships towards unfamiliar lands, a great sense of foreboding came upon them – great danger lay ahead. But so did home.

The Great Armament had large stores of supplies that could easily last for months, but even those would eventually run out. After all, the King was counting on more ships from Númenor for the invasion of Valinor, ships laden with food, water and weapons instead of soldiers. But such supply was not going to be coming anytime soon - if ever, and word has begun to spread amongst the sailors that Númenor itself was destroyed, Most likely sunk in the cataclysm that exiled them to this forsaken land. Such questions remained academic, however; even if Númenor itself were not destroyed, they knew not the way home assuming there was even such a route. After all, many of the Númenóreans glanced up at the night sky only a few hours ago, and it did not take Tar-Meneldur to notice that the very stars were unfamiliar...

As the sun slowly weaved its way over the horizon, jagged peaks came into view. "Finally!" the proud King shouted in his native Adûnaic. "Land up ahead!"

Alas, things could have turned out differently. There was a time, very long ago, when Ar-Pharazôn, King of Númenor, was often compared to the Edain of old, those many ancestors he admired. To Tar-Minastir, Elros Tar-Minyatur himself, even to Eärendil. Yet times changed, and so did he. The twenty-fifth Númenórean monarch's attempt to seize the Undying Lands and defy the Gift of Man ended in a calamity so utter that there would not be a twenty-sixth. And now he had to face the consequences of his actions: exile to a foreign land where the very constellations were strange, likely with powerful enemies ahead.

Yet Eru was not merciless.

"And the warmth of the sun's rays suggest a more southerly latitude, my King," Amandil replied in flowing Quenya. Along with his three servants, the Lord of Andúnië was found by the Great Armament several days ago, on a small ship speeding east by the same vicious gales. Fortunately Amandil held no grudge against the King, who trusted very few men after Sauron's treachery was made evident, and served as a councillor again soon after being taken abroad the _Aglarrâma_. But the century-old divides torn between the King's Men and the Faithful were not so easily healed.

Then there were the massive galleys of Númenor, some of the finest works of Man, stretching all the way back to the fading night. Golden devices on black sails bathed in the first rays of the sun, glittering in the breeze.

*******

Landfall.

As the fleet drew closer to the land, a small castle was spotted near the shore. A scouting party soon brought back news that the castle's gates were open, with the fortress almost entirely deserted except for an old man and a few women. Dispensing with the customary fanfare, Ar-Pharazôn hastily disembarked his ship, setting foot on this unfamiliar land for the first time without so much as a word, then impatiently made his way to the castle. After a few failed attempts at using gestures, the man began to speak.

To the King's utter surprise, he could largely understand what the man was saying. Sure, there were a few unfamiliar words such as the old man describing himself as a "Maester", but Adûnaic and what he called the "Common Tongue" were mutually intelligible. He soon told the King and his men that nearly all of the castle's occupants have fled once they saw the fleet, fearing what it would bring.

"Here, my King!" A captain shouted as soldiers rummaged through the Maester's office. "We got a map!"

Further questioning of the Maester revealed that the Great Armament landed at Bandellon, of the Blackbar family - although the Maester referred to 'House Blackbar', a quick glimpse of the pitifully small holding suggests that the castle was held by no more than a mere lordling. This land called Westeros - for there was even more land further to the east, separated by a narrow sea - was divided between seven independent kingdoms, Bandellon itself sworn to the Kingdom of the Reach, a realm that not only had Westeros' most fertile farmland, but also some of the continent's largest armies and strongest fortresses.

"What now?" the King asked his ad hoc war council, composed of Amandil and several of the most prominent captains, after the Maester left.

"We could move south and attack Oldtown," one of the captains mused. "Whoever holds Oldtown controls the southern Reach with its large supply of crops and manpower, and the city itself is a very useful staging base for invading the Arbor, western Dorne and Highgarden. The city also has a complex of buildings known as the Citadel, where most of the knowledge on this continent is kept. But there are significant risks of urban combat where we can't fully use our fleet, not to mention the tower in the centre of the city. From how the 'maester' described it, we might as well be attacking Barad-dur."

"Or we can march north and invade Highgarden," another captain suggested. "For it is the seat of House Gardener and capital of the Kingdom of the Reach. And the 'maester' said Highgarden has huge stores of food, which would be very useful. Its strategic location on the banks of the river Mander, and the numerous roads that pass through Highgarden, also allow for multiple routes of expansion. But these roads also allow opportunists from neighboring kingdoms to attack easily, so its strategic strength may also be a vulnerability. The castle is also famous for being highly defensible, guarded by some of the best warriors Westeros has to offer. We're strong, but we haven't actually fought any of them yet, and time besieging the castle could also be time put to better use."

"Or we could build a settlement on the mouth of the Mander and wait for the enemy to attack. Any battle that takes place would be on an open field, and they would be marching straight into our steel bows. The new city that is built there will also be built more to our liking..."

"No," Amandil interjected. "The army has to work on building the camp and the fleet will be needed for fishing, and we need housing as soon as possible. We could occupy Bandellon and remain here for the time being while also expanding the settlement with the builders we have on board. And luckily the harbour is also large enough to contain much of our fleet, and there's enough lumber around to repair the more damaged ships."

"We will secure Bandallon first, then march upon Oldtown." the King decided. "For hunger is almost certainly more potent foe than these Reachmen, and we need food as soon as possible, along with another port to contain the rest of our fleet..."

"As for the fleet, my King," Amandil suddenly spoke up again. "There's still the matter regarding the galley slaves."

"What of the galley slaves?"

"You may be King of the Númenoreans, but free men, be they Númenorean or not, row with far more vigor than those chained to their benches, still more so during times of strife. And some amongst the men already say that impiety and tyranny was what caused this fleet to no longer have a home port..." Amandil paused as two guardsmen, swords in hand, were by both his sides.

"Escort the Leader of the 'Faithful' out of the room," the King commanded.

"I am no longer their leader," Amandil replied. "That would be my son Elendil, and will still be if he, or any of the Faithful, still remain in this world or in Arda. My allegiance lies with what remains of the Númenoreans, be they Faithful or King's Men, for the Men of the West cannot ever hope to prevail against the One, try as they might. And surely their King would have learnt how cruelty ruins a kingdom. Or that slaves may revolt, and killing them will deprive the Great Armament of much-needed manpower. Surely it is beneath the King's Men to personally row the oars of the warships when they yield such tasks to lesser men? If you seek my counsel again, my King, I will be at the docks. That is all." Amandil strode out of the room, the doors clanging behind him, drowning out Ar-Pharazôn's soft sigh. Despite the grave differences in theology, the King had much respect for the man who had been, and perhaps still was, his closest friend and most trustworthy advisor now that Sauron had proven his true colours. Amandil may often have disagreed with the King and his men, but he was always outspoken and never deceitful. The King hastily wrote a proclamation and sent for Amandil again, asking him to bring some of the galley rowers.

Half an hour later, Amandil returned with galley slaves drawn from each of the largest ships. The slaves involuntarily trembled as they are escorted to Ar-Pharazôn's presence, resignedly anticipating whatever harsh punishment they thought the King was going to dole out in plentiful amounts. To their surprise, however, the King held a scroll in his hand instead of the dreaded whip. "Aphanuzîr _,_ take this proclamation and read it out aloud for them all to hear."

The (once) Lord of Andúnië's Adûnaic was no less fluent than the Elven-tongues used within his household. "By order of Ar-Pharazôn, King of the Númenoreans, The King of Men, all current slaves abroad the Great Armament are to be regarded as indentured servants effective immediately. Their indenture is to last ten years, with an early release of up to five years dependant on loyalty and merit. Those who serve poorly will find their indentures extended depending on a case by case basis. Indentured servants are to be freed upon completion of their indenture, and those who have performed admirably will be given land grants."

Having read the proclamation, Amandil continued with an impromptu speech. "I know that many of you have grievances against Númenor, its people, or even the King himself. Númenor now lies under the sea, its people scattered, and the King's forebears would not have shown you the mercy that he has granted today. But remember that we are all in the same boat now, literally and metaphorically, and there is a dangerous world out there. King's Men, Faithful, Men of Twilight - those terms might have once mattered and caused endless grief, but we are now fighting for our very lives, and it's past time we set these divisions apart. If you still aren't willing to row for the King, row for your compatriots and row for yourself."

A thin smile formed on the King's lips. True, this hastily cobbled speech did not fully reflect Amandil's oratory skill. _At his best, the man could even stand up again Sauron. For a while at least. Yet the speech served its purpose, and news will soon spread amongst the former slaves._

The shocked yet beyond satisfied 'representatives' filed out as the war-captains entered the room. Drawn from the fiercest - and wisest - of Númenor's warriors, the ad hoc council had been busy drafting plans, having decided to capture Oldtown at the earliest opportunity. With the slightly reluctant help of the Maester, the captains were able to draft two land invasion plans which could be launched very soon, possibly in a few days and most likely before the defenders can properly mobilise.

"What do you think of this?" the King asked Amandil after the two had read the proposals.

"Too risky, for our ships are still unloading men and supplies, and many of them are damaged to various extents. The first plan could work, but we cannot send such a large expeditionary host - perhaps fifteen thousand men at most to take Brightwater Keep, as there are no major roads between from here to there. When the castle and its boats are ours, a small vanguard can sail down the Honeywine river to seize Oldtown's gates, while the rest of our army marches on roads leading downstream. We will almost certainly achieve surprise and secure castles along the Honeywine..."

"But we do not know how many riverboats are at Brightwater Keep. Too few, and we will not have enough men to storm Oldtown, making the whole venture pointless," the King interrupted. "What about the second plan?"

"We could march the expeditionary host directly to Oldtown without running into logistical issues, and we will have more men to siege the city. But this would require the host to march for a longer distance. Without lembas, the men may be tired, and the defenders might have enough time to put together a cohesive defence before their arrival..."

"Enough," the King replied. "We will not send out an expeditionary force yet. Most of our ships still need to be repaired and with little information on our enemy, or even the terrain, sending out an expeditionary force now would be a rash decision."

The captains nodded, yet many began to murmur. The maester's map suggested that taking Brightwater Keep will provide a useful base to attack Oldtown, even if such an invasion were not launched immediately; furthermore, holding the fortress would secure the main road leading to Bandallon. Yet others noted that Brightwater Keep's lords were closely related to the King of the Reach and thus an attack may provoke unnecessary attention.

"My King, shall I send for the 'maester'?" Amandil asked as the captains continued their petty squabbling. The Men of the West were quick to anger since the Shadow fell upon the Land of the Star, and what little patience remained ran thin ever since the Great Armament was unceremoniously humbled by the Valar. "He surely would have more information on Brightwater Keep. With a heavy escort, of course. To ensure that he does not accidentally send any ravens to other settlements."

"Such careless mistakes are easy to avoid in the presence of armed men," the King muttered.

Soon, the maester returns with a thick, dusty tome and a scroll in his hand. "All you need to know about Brightwater Keep and the Reach, Your Grace," the maester commented as he gently set the book on a large desk. The King delicately traced his fingers over the cover, grimacing at the unfamiliar Westerosi letters - if that was what those symbols were. They seemed to use an alphabet, not unlike the Mode of Beleriand Ar-Pharazôn dimly remembered from the days of his youth. With obvious care, the Maester opened the tome and pointed towards one of the pages, clearly oblivious that the conquerors knew little of Westerosi letters or numbers. "My lord, Brightwater Keep is the seat of House Florent, a noble house directly descended from Garth Greenhand and hence very influential within the Reach. House Florent's influence extends along the Honeywine's upper reaches, even as far as Bandallon itself. Brightwater Keep has a small fleet of riverboats, with its major sources of income derived from agriculture and trade along the Honeywine; goods can be shipped there from Oldtown and hence to Highgarden and beyond. House Florent can raise two to three thousand men, or five to six thousand when fighting on their own lands, with a large proportion of knights among the troops."

"And what of that scroll?" Amandil asked.

"My lords, I have just received a raven from Lord Blackbar, who formerly occupied this castle and its lands before he fled with his family - I intend no offense, my lord, but Westeros has never seen a fleet as large as yours." He pauses as he examines the scroll, then continues. "Lord Blackbar wishes to negotiate the return of his castle and lands, in addition to the safety of himself and his family, in exchange for swearing fealty to you and be your faithful bannerman. He will arrive tomorrow morning."

Ar-Pharazôn deftly grabbed a parchment. "Write this to Lord Blackbar. You may return to negotiate the return of your lands and safety of your family. No harm shall befall you so long as you are a guest of the Great Armament. Ar-Pharazôn the Golden of the line of Elros, Âru n'Anadûnê, The Âru n’Âdunai, Tar-Calion ain Elenna-Nórë, King of Númenor, Master of the Adûnaim, Arantar Tarcil. Not one word more, not one word less, or I shall have your head. Then place my seal upon the letter, and send it off on one of your little ravens. The one that goes to Brightwater Keep, not Oldtown, for you seem to value your life as much as I value mine. Now go!"

Once the maester was comfortably out of earshot, the ad-hoc council once again erupted in fierce argument - some of the captains considered it risky to attack right now, yet others argued that holding Brightwater Keep would help relieve the imminent supply shortage associated with feeding hundreds of thousands of men; furthermore the castle could act as a supply station and assembly for the invasion of Oldtown. But the King thought little of the strife amongst his captains. If the council had not reached a decision when the sun rose again, the King would decide himself, and his word, as always, was final. But there was one more thing to do before the sun goes down. With Amandil in tow, Ar-Pharazôn headed towards the castle's parapets and silently watched his first Sunset in Westeros.

A raven gracefully swooped away from Bandallon castle, its black feathers glistening in the last rays of the sun. A short parchment was attached to one of its legs, carrying the permission for parlay dictated to the maester. "I also asked him to attach a long list of your titles for good measure, my King. Perhaps Lord Blackbar will be shocked and awed upon reading your message."

Yet Ar-Pharazôn was lost in his own thoughts.

_Who are you, in this strange and unfamiliar land?_

Once the captain of a great ship, once the King of a great nation, leader of a great people. But now the ships were battered, and Anadûnê was lost beneath the very waves that now bashed themselves against the sharp rocks, a hail of sea foam erupting upon collision. Further still, the blazing sky was a swirl of red and orange, dotted with a few wisps of white as clouds lazily drifted overhead. As one look East, all was dark; North and South also began to dim.

_The Golden, they call you. But what is gold without home? The Gift of the Valar has been withdrawn, slipped under the wave along with all its people._

Perhaps not all. Numenor was not completely deprived of its fishermen; somebody had to feed the Great Armament after all while the soldiers fought. There was still much trading between Numenor and its Middle-Earth colonies when the Great Armament landed on the shores of Aman. And the King also dimly remembered one of his spies' report - the remaining Faithful had taken themselves aboard nine huge ships, even larger than most of the King's warships. Perhaps they did not perish, but it is not inconceivable that at least a few other ships survived which were not of the Great Armament.

_King of a Sunset people, Lord of a dimming nation. Yet the flame still burns bright in the west. Hope lies where you came from, yet you cannot return._

_Darkness lies on the paths you must tread._

The King silently lit a candle and returned to Bandallon's halls. The flickering flames were the same colour as the dying sunlight.


	2. First Blood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The first battle... or is it a slaughter?

Sunrise.

Lord Bandallon arrived exactly on time, perhaps to make a favourable impression. Behind him were a small company of guards and what was most likely his family, all of whom were quickly ushered through the gates and to the King's presence.

Initial negotiations were much smoother than the King expected. Lord Blackbar was an intelligent man after all, his fear for himself and his family greatly eclipsing his loyalty to his former liege. The King also sensed that Blackbar's clouded mind had a streak of ambition, perhaps wishing to advance his future status by being the first ones to support the new rulers. More land, such as those from House Florent, would fill up his coffers more quickly.

But problems arose when the Númenóreans unveiled their battle plan. "I will help you take Brightwater Keep," Lord Blackbar said, "and outfit your guards with my men's uniforms. But I have no intention of violating guest right, even upon pain of death. The Faith of the Seven explicitly forbids guests from harming their host, and I have no intention of becoming the next Rat Cook by asking for bread and salt while intending to harm the host. I will not ask for Brightwater Keep's hospitality, nor accept it even were it offered, before your attack is launched."

Ar-Pharazôn quickly pointed out the flaws in Blackbar's reasoning. "Our men will spring into action before you even have the chance to ask for bread and salt; if anything goes wrong, they will improvise. They are my best guardsmen after all. But who is the Rat Cook?"

By the time Lord Blackbar finished his story, the King's eyelids barely stayed open, days of hard work and lack of sleep having finally taken their toll even upon the Heir of Eärendil.

"Perhaps further negotiations can be postponed until your return," Amandil suggested. "The Brightwater expedition is now ready and will march out once you've had a bit more rest. And speaking of the expedition, I would be more than willing to lead it if my King wishes."

"No, for I shall lead the host myself," the King answered. "You will remain at Bandallon and fortify both our camp and the keep. I will have a fortified camp as befits the Men of the West, not a refugee slum. Ask the captains what kind of ships are most useful now and focus on repairing those. Use fast, undamaged galleys to scout the seas around us, and use some of the larger ships to start fishing, but never should they go alone without escort. Find men who can read Adûnaic or those versed in ancient lore, and have them start going through the Maester's library after learning their alphabet, translating anything of use to our script. And you are to question, but not too harshly, Blackbar's family and the Maester about the weather of these lands and those of surrounding lords, the size of their harvests, how long seasons last, and what the commoners thought of those who ruled over them. Furthermore, you shall keep a constant watch upon the western coast for any straggling ships. Perhaps your son's ships may be among those."

"As for you, Lord Blackbar," the King turned towards Bandallon's noble. "You will join the host... as part of the vanguard which would surprise Brightwater Keep. And your family will stay here, of course. For their safety. I'm sure you understand."

*******

All seems to be well after the expeditionary host departed from Bandallon, until the King heard the distant thunder of hooves - barely, even with his keen hearing. But the hoofbeats were getting louder and louder. A scout was quickly dispatched to a nearby hill. He returned before long, bringing back news of thousands of horsemen, almost certainly hostile, heading down the road.

"Order Blackbar and his infiltration force to follow the original plan. The main host would be more than enough to take on the enemy, and a hundred of my royal guards will not make a difference for this battle."

A messenger quickly detached himself from the main force and raced towards the infiltration force, ordering them to follow the original plan. Once Lord Blackbar acknowledged the order, the messenger immediately returned to the main force to avoid drawing suspicion due to his Númenórean armour. Fortunately the enemy cavalry did not seem to notice the lone messenger, completely ignoring the 'refugees' while continuing to head towards the main force.

Meanwhile, the fifteen thousand strong main host prepared for battle. The Men-at-arms were divided into eight thangails, five positioned on the forward slope while the rest were situated on the reverse slope, ready to spring into action and encircle the enemy once an opportunity presented itself. Meanwhile, the Steel Bows formed up before the thangails, given strict orders to loose only when the enemy entered 160 yards - practically point blank range. Although the Steel Bows could shoot up to 1000 yards, loosing at such distances would cause the enemy to flee instead of entering the carefully prepared trap. With preparations complete, there was nothing to do but wait.

Then came the order. "Loose."

The fell darts of Westernesse effortlessly pierced through the plate armour of the Reach's finest warriors and their mounts. Nearly a sixth of the Reachmen were wounded or slain, even as the Steel Bows quickly nocked their next arrows, loosing the second volley far before the enemy had a chance to enter melee range.

However, the Reach's knights were clearly experienced and quickly reacted to their unfavourable circumstances. Scarcely had the first volley been loosed when the gleaming mass dispersed into a much looser formation, the second volley causing considerably fewer casualties. Yet scores of foes were still vanquished by a deadly weapon even Westeros' best armour found hard pressed to endure.

Then came the volley that finally broke the Reachmen.

The enemy cavalry split into two and **fled** before reaching the Númenórean lines, unwilling to die like those unfortunate knights who lay on the field riddled with arrows, their lives seeping through the blood-soaked mud and into the unknown. The uncanny silence was broken as a deafening cheer erupted from the Númenórean ranks, derogatory insults and slurs hurled at the enemy who were nevertheless undoubtedly out of earshot.

But the Men-at-arms were not satisfied to merely be spectators in this one-sided battle, their longswords shimmering under the bright sun as the two 'flanking' thangails surged forward to encircle the enemy, trapping a gross of horsemen who were abandoned by their quicker comrades. The flanking thangails were soon joined by the five forward thangails, yelling ancient Edainic battlecries as they bore down on the hapless knights. Only a few of the trapped knights did not immediately surrender; those fools were dragged from their horses and paid the ultimate price for their stubbornness or indecisiveness.

The battle, nay, slaughter, unceremoniously ended as the enemy fled, horses riding over fallen comrades in the haste to escape. A trail of dark red stretched all the way to the horizon, and the King's stomach involuntarily lurched as he forced himself to hold onto this morning's hearty breakfast, barely successful in his attempt. Yet here and there some of his men struggled in vain, their last meal erupting from their mouths and onto the ground - or worse still, onto the men around them, provoking a chain reaction as their disgusted neighbours also disgorged the contents of their stomachs. Despite the years, even decades or centuries, of combat experience, soldiers were still Men after all.

But there was still work to do. As some of the Númenóreans ripped small pieces off their tunics, placing them over their mouths and noses to ward off the repugnant stench, the King quickly issued more orders before pulling out a piece of cloth. "Secure the prisoners. Treat the wounded and take them to Brightwater Keep once we have taken the castle."

Amandil smiled.

Just over a hundred of the trapped horsemen survived, most surrendering swiftly once they realised their hopeless cause. Many of their horses survived too, protected by their thick barding that warded off the initial blows by spear or sword. The captured knights were soon relieved of their weapons and helmets.

Quite a few of the fallen knights survived the three volleys, though many were severely injured, and would never hold a lance or ride a horse again. Those who could walk, along with the few horses which can still get up and trot, were quickly taken back up the hill and put together with the earlier prisoners, while those who had difficulty walking were propped up by their fellow prisoners. Makeshift stretchers were used to carry the severely injured and all of the dead enemies that could be found, in accordance with the now revised plans.

The rest of the force kept a careful lookout on the hill, ready to spring into action in case the surviving enemies decided to return. However, it gradually became clear that the enemy was not eager for a second engagement, even while Númenórean force was at its most vulnerable.

With the living and the dead secured, the main force moved on to Brightwater Keep, as the remaining men continued to scavenge the battlefield for arms and armour, slowly following the main force in two parallel lines.

The stench of the battlefield gradually faded away, giving way to the fresh aromas of flowers and grass. _The Reach may not match Anadûnê with its halls of splendour and golden woods_ , the King thought, _yet it has a quaint beauty of its own_. These new lands could, one day, be fashioned into a new home that reminds the Edain of their old.

*******

The infiltration of Brightwater Keep started off well. Fooled by Lord Blackbar and the Númenórean Royal Guards' armour, the gates were quickly opened, and soon afterwards the gatekeepers were briefly surprised as their welcomes were met with cold steel instead of warm handshakes or forearm grips. A few seconds later, the blades of Westernesse were painted crimson red from tip to hilt as they were withdrawn from careless Florent men, many still clutching their bowels in a futile attempt to prevent their guts from spilling out. Lord Blackbar briefly slipped and barely caught his breath before he clutched his ears, his eardrums rattled by the deafening howls of the man whose exposed entrails he had stepped on. Blackbar's sword, still a shiny silver-grey, slipped from his hand as he retched, and raced outside the gatehouse for some fresh air.

But before long, the alarm was raised.

Six ravens flew out of a tower near the castle's southwest corner. The Steel Bows swiftly loosened their arrows, bringing down three of the birds, yet the others were able to escape. Led by Lord Blackbar, men of the Númenórean Royal Guard raced towards the Maester's tower to prevent him from sending more ravens or escaping, cutting down scores of Florent men along the way. But they were too late; the Maester flung himself out of the window just as the impromptu ram broke the door into splinters. For a moment, it seemed as the man is able to fly... before the inevitable plunge down; down below to the unyielding ground that eagerly soaked up the man's life in a satisfying 'crunch'. Meanwhile, the remaining Royal Guard desperately held the gatehouse against incoming enemies, barricading the corridors with shelves and other heavy furniture where doors were not available. Pots of hastily boiled oil, water, and disgusting amber-coloured liquids were mercilessly poured onto any defender who attempted to close the gates.

Then the main host arrived.

Company after company, row after row, the Men of Westernesse crossed the smooth ridge and swarmed towards Brightwater Keep. An unending, inexorable tide of iron and flesh, spearpoints seemingly morphing into small droplets of silver in the blazing sun. The fierce Sons of the West, Men beyond the Sunset Sea, were here to claim their new home. Perhaps by words. By the deeds of the Edain, given a second chance after their fall from grace. Toiling hard and raising new cities in an unfamiliar land, settlements that recall the glory of Elenna.

But perhaps also by blood. By the unyielding steel that every man now held in his hand. Some of those spears were tipped red - a warning of what was to come, if whoever commanded the castle still refused to come to their senses.

The Castellan of Brightwater Keep and his men lay down their arms.

*******

To the King's disappointment, several of the raven cages were open.

"Which ravens got away?" Amandil asked. "Blackbar, tell us what the maester wrote before he died."

"The ravens to Oldtown and Honeyholt, my Lord. The ravens to Highgarden and Horn Hill were shot down," Lord Blackbar replied. "As for the message, it reads as follows: Lord Hightower, Brightwater Keep is under attack by a large army. The enemies are tall, taller than any man I have seen in Westeros. They have already taken the gatehouse, more swiftly than any man can expect to be possible, and almost certainly by sorcery or unchivalrous tactics. We thought they were Lord Blackbar's men, but Blackbar is either held hostage or worse still, has turned against the Reach to serve these foreign conquerors."

"The enemy are now heading towards my tower," Blackbar continued, "and they have slain most of the guards. It is too late for Brightwater Keep, but not too late for Oldtown. I beg you to ready Oldtown's defences immediately lest they arrive before you are ready. A similarly worded warning has already been sent to Honeyholt, but the castle and its garrison are far too small to resist these vile invaders. I have advised House Beesbury, your bannermen, to flee with all haste to Highgarden with all the men they can take. I'm afraid I won't make it out alive; this is the last wish of a dead man. Maester Harwick, Brightwater Keep."

"A brave man even until his very end," the King muttered. "But now Oldtown and Honeyholt shall be readied for battle ere we attack."

"That may be so, but it takes time to rally men and build more fortifications, while even a hundred years would not be enough for Honeyholt's garrison of a few hundred men. March most of your host south, Your Grace, where they can take Oldtown by surprise before the Hightowers can be readied. For no army in the Reach, or all of Westeros, can even march half as fast as you. Or you could take Honeyholt along the way. And I will come along with you," Blackbar answered.

"Then follow me," the King said. "Aphanuzîr, bring me my sword."

Black feathers lazily swayed in the fresh breeze, slowly drifting towards the ground. A keen-eyed observer would have noticed the silhouette of a bird; the tips of its feathers painted a mellow gold by the sun's last rays, seamlessly melding into the red and orange hues of wispy clouds far in the west. Meanwhile, torches fiercely burned in the Great Hall, illumining bright yellow tinted with shades of crimson.

Lord Blackbar's lips twitched slightly as he dropped to his knees. The astute man, ever so careful, expressed little emotion as Aranrúth softly landed on his shoulder.

"Rise, Lord Blackbar, Advisor of the King and Lord of Bandallon castle. Staunch loyalty will be rewarded with great riches. But behold Aranrúth, sword of the Heir of Eärendil! It is never too blunt for those who repay kindness with vile treachery."

A similar ceremony was held with Brightwater Keep's castellan and House Florent's retainers. The Castellan was to be granted the castle until its lord returned and did homage to the King of Men, while the Castellan himself would be rewarded once the current war was over. As each Florent retainer bent the knee, his hands were unshackled with a satisfying 'clunk', signifying his newfound status as a free subject of the West. Yet weapons remained in the armoury under lock and key, zealously guarded at all times by several men-at-arms. Any attempts at resistance was almost certainly futile and short-lived.

The knights were less unanimous in their decisions. Before long, a knight refused to bend the knee, paying the ultimate price for his stubbornness. Stripped of his armour, the hapless knight was dragged to the courtyard where Aranrúth effortlessly severed his neck in one blow. A pool of blood, now dull red, seeped into the roots of a weirwood tree, ghostly white against the darkness of night. The tree was fed another 135 times before the sun rose again.


	3. The Road to Oldtown

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Numenorean expedition heads towards Oldtown... but the Reachmen still have a trick up their sleeve.

Honeyholt was deserted by the time the Númenóreans arrived, its owners apparently heeding the late Maester of Brightwater Keep and fled for the comparative safety of Oldtown. But not before poisoning the wells.  
  
Around seven hundred men clutched at their bellies, some crawling on the floor in a hopeless attempt to relieve the pain. The King reflexively crinkled his nose, grimacing at the stinging odour of vomit and the putrid smell of soiled clothes. The Men-at-arms, who were setting up their camps, were not affected by the poison before the devious act was discovered.  
  
A cursory examination suggested that although none of their lives were in danger, the poisoned soldiers would not be fighting any time soon; furthermore, medical attention was required lest worse symptoms appear. Some of them could be treated with herbs, while the rest would have to be sent back to Bandallon with an escort, in case of ambushes along the way.  
  
Throughout its history, Anadûnê was well-known for its flora of healing herbs. But the most famous of these herbs was athelas, a sweet-scented herb of the Eldar which, in the right hands, could heal almost any disease under the Sun. Fortunately, athelas was not required for the poisoned men, as the past few decades of turnoil saw almost everything related to the Eldar uprooted and fed to the flames. Thanks to Zigûr the Deceiver.  
  
Ar-Pharazôn's blood boiled as he remembered the honeyed tongue, the soothing words. Even Nimloth the Fair, heirloom of the House of Elros, had not escaped the fires of the Temple. That night, Armenelos was shrouded in black soot, as dark as the Timeless Void that stood beyond the Doors of Night. For all the King's Men's hatred of the Eldar and everything they stood for, it could not be denied that the seeds of Anadûnê's technology and lore were sown by the Firstborn, whose birthrights the King sought to usurp. And now the King, Ar-Pharazôn the Golden, would be remembered as Âru Akallabêth - King of the Downfallen. Anadûnê itself was now beneath the sea, nothing more than a tale of bitter regret. But the Last King of Númenor need not be the last king of the Númenóreans.  
  
The light scent of boiling herbs drifted into the King's nostrils, weaving the faint outline of an idea in his thoughts.  
  
In his last years of his dotage, the King's uncle Ar-Inziladûn issued several prophecies about the House of Elros. While the teachings of such a madman could normally be safely ignored, his words regarding Nimloth had proven to be accurate. Perhaps his words about the healing hands of a King may be true as well. There was only one way to find out.  
  
As he handed the last bowl to a knight, Inziladûn's teachings appeared to be validated. The knight mumbled a quiet thanks, as he slowly poured the concoction down his mouth. Before long, the pale pallor of his face was replaced by a red flush. Elsewhere, the symphony of retching had also reached its coda, replaced by an eerie silence. Passing through the camp, the King could not help but notice the mumbled conversations of the Heir of Elros among the Steel Bowmen. The Westerosi knights spoke amongst each other, in hushed whispers, tales of an otherworldly people, led by a powerful yet kindly king, and it was clear that the nearly three hundred men who drank the herbs would fully recover by nightfall, yet hundreds of others were still ill.  
  
Even as the King laboriously prepared the herbs with the healers, Lord Blackbar was inspecting the other water sources, occasionally tasting the water in small doses to ensure safety. It soon became apparent that only the castle's main well was poisoned; in their haste, the previous owners had not tampered with the cistern under the main hall. "We can leave a small garrison here, Your Grace," Lord Blackbar announced. "I can take the untreated men back to Bandallon with around two thousand soldiers if you wish so while you continue towards Oldtown with the rest of the host. We can always retake Honeyholt later."  
  
"We shall leave a garrison here. Ride with great haste to Bandallon with ten knights, and return to Honeyholt with the herbs as soon as possible. Send my regards to Amandil, and tell him to expect further orders." Remembering that Lord Blackbar's party included no Númenóreans, the King added an offhand remark. "Also send my regards to your family. I'm eager to meet them, and you will soon be rewarded for your efforts."  
  
Despite their best efforts, the Númenóreans could not find enough barges to transport significant numbers of men downriver. Most of the men would therefore continue their march towards Oldtown, but two days away on foot. A small garrison of 300 men were to be left behind, defending the castle and the ill soldiers who would stay at Honeyholt until the herbs arrived.  
  
However, the poisoning itself may have been a mixed blessing. The ill knights' horses were given to their companions, and all of the knights attacking Oldtown would be mounted. There was even talk of giving horses to the Royal Guard, but that idea was shot down by the Captain of the Guards himself, who dismissed the notion with a gruff voice. "My King, my men and I are mostly trained to fight on foot, though our love of horses is no less than any Númenórean. You already have cavalry, and our duty is to protect you." Acknowledging that he had a point, the King suggested that the spare horses be taken by other captains and messengers, so that they could perform their duties more effectively.  
  
Meanwhile the war council once again quarrelled amongst themselves. While some advocated storming Oldtown immediately, most preferred to besiege the city; after all, a large population required much food and water. Besieging Oldtown immediately cut off the city from the Reach's most fertile farmlands, leaving only the Arbor as a viable food supply. Once the Great Armament's ships were repaired, they could then be deployed near the Redwyne Straits to cut off Oldtown's last lifeline. Furthermore, interrupting the city's water supply may be possible, which would force the enemy to either swiftly capitulate or engage in a disadvantageous open battle. However, supporters of a siege also agreed that a siege may lead to destruction of valuable items, and a city tended to have few supplies remaining at the end of a siege.  
  
The argument was still ongoing when it was time to leave Honeyholt. A fanfare of trumpets rang out, crisp and clear, as the Númenórean expeditionary force marched from the castle, their thudding footsteps echoing in the gatehouse's narrow archway. And suddenly singing could be heard. Dimly at first, yet growing louder and louder, as men broke into song alongside their comrades within and without the castle.  
  
 _"Éarendel sprang up from the Ocean’s cup, in the gloom of the mid-world’s rim..."_  
  
Scarcely had the song ended did another chant emerge:  
  
 _"Long live the King! Long live Ar-Pharazôn!"_  
  
Surprised, the King turn and saw the Westerosi knights, swords and lances raised high. More swords were being unsheathed as the rest of the men took up the chant. Then the host, more than ten thousand strong, erupted in a thunderous cheer.  
  


*******

  
Upon a parapet of Bandallon castle, Amandil fixated his gaze far to the West, yearning for the familiar sights of black sails embroidered with seven argent stars set above a white tree. The mark of his household, and now that of the Faithful.  
  
Forty thousand men, women and children were all that was left of what fair Elenna-nórë once stood for, ere it was corrupted by the seeds of strife sown by Morgoth Bauglir. Calling themselves the Elendili, or elf-friends, the Faithful suffered increasingly harsh persecuted by the greater part of Númenoreans who styled themselves as the King's Men. In Númenor's last centuries, most of the remaining Faithful resided near Andúnië, one of the most westerly settlements in Númenor - and far from Armenelos. The settlement's lords were of the House of Elros and chief counsellors of the realm, second to none bar the line of Kings.  
  
Although the Kings knew of the Andúnië branch's affinity towards the elves and Valar, their Lords were of noble birth and high prestige, even amongst many of the King's Men. Furthermore, the longevity of Valandil's descendants were well-known as the lifespan of the Kings declined, often leading to strategic marriage alliances. Andúnië was thus spared from the worst of the King's wroth against the Faithful, and secret visits by Elven ships remain unsanctioned despite ample evidence provided by the King's spies. Ar-Pharazôn himself valued the wise counsel of his kinsman Amandil, though their friendship cooled after Sauron's 'capture'.  
  
Instead, the Faithful were ordered to relocate to the port of Rómenna, where they could be more effectively monitored. Under Sauron's orders, persecution of the Faithful only increased from that point onwards, with men even being sacrificed as 'punishment' for charges of treason against the King.  
  
Yet Amandil did not stay with the Faithful, instead leaving leadership of the Faithful to his son and heir Elendil. After an emotional farewell with his household, the 18th and last Lord of Andúnië boarded a small ship under the cover of night, along with three trusted servants, remembering the deeds of his forefather Eärendil three millennia ago. He first sailed east till Númenor was out of sight, then turned west and sailed for the Uttermost West.  
  


*******

  
Nine ships were prepared, easily amongst the largest vessels ever constructed by the Men of Westernesse, even rivalling Alcarondas itself. Yet the King's ships carried fewer men; the Great Armament was a fleet of war. Furthermore, the King's Men had long since forgotten how to make Lembas, as they abandoned old arts and wisdom associated with the Eldar when Númenor grew proud. Yet the Faithful still retained close ties with Lindon, even until the very end, and did not forsake the crafts of the Firstborn.  
  
Plentiful stores of Lembas were brought upon the ships, Though Mannish waybread is far less potent than its elven counterpart, it nevertheless , leaving more room for people and other cargo. In the end, only nine ships were necessary; any more, and the King may begin to suspect that a large number of men, who would otherwise be conscripted into the Great Armament, are hiding on board the ships. Amandil's counsel to Elendil on this matter was ultimately validated, for the ships were not harassed by the King's Men.  
  
Crates of other items were brought aboard the ships, the Faithful's treasures, heirlooms, and dusty scrolls of ancient lore which harkened back to the blissful days of old. Chief among these were the seven Palantíri, powerful seeing stones, made by none other than Fëanor, greatest of the Noldor. These stones could easily descry scenes located far beyond the range of unaided sight, and could also be used to communicate with each other over vast distances. A fruit of Nimloth the Fair was stolen from Armenelos by Isildur, who suffered grave injuries in the deed, and the fruit is now aboard Isildur's ship.  
  
Then Elendil bade his household and captains anchor the ships in the Bay of Rómenna, within sight of the seaport itself. There the Faithful waited, and watched as the Isle of the Star was rent asunder by terrible quakes, and the Meneltarma burst into flames, raining smoke and ash upon those below. Then the Land of Gift, plunging into the sea, was engulfed by a tremendous wave. As seagulls fled the drowning Númenor, they spied nine small specks floating in the water, fierce winds driving them far to the East.  
  
Númenor was no more.


	4. Nine Ships

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Faithful finally arrive.

Nine dim specks of light drifted in the dark and stormy night.  
  
Waves upon waves bashed relentlessly against creaking hulls, threatening to break apart the ships into driftwood and send its occupants into a watery grave. Yet the ships held, a tribute to the fine shipwrights of Númenor, whose arts even greatly exceeded those of the Noldor.  
  
In the confined hulls, the Faithful clung onto each other and whatever they could hold onto in total darkness; lamps were not permitted for fear of fire. Piercing screams of fear, and even pain, erupted from the huddled masses whenever a ship rose over a crest and slammed into the water below. Worse still, an odious scent of sweat, vomit, and even urine wafted through the interior of the ships. While there were many hardened mariners among the ranks of the Faithful, even more had never set foot on a ship prior to Elendil's orders, and the storm was far greater than any Númenorean sailor had ever seen. But the storm would end, and the ships would have their new homes. After all, Eru and the Valar had never failed them before.  
  
A small fleet of ships struggled in the fierce winds, carrying the last vestiges of Númenor of old. Or so the Elendili thought.  
  


*******

  
Whether it was due to the exceptional skill of Andúnië's mariners or by the grace of Ilúvatar, none of the Nine Ships were severely damaged during the tumultuous journey east. Not even during the beaching, when the Faithful's ships were thrown onto an island. Warning beacons had been hastily lit, yet the flames were quickly drowned by the massive wave that raced across the island, and no further beacons were seen.  
  
The Faithful quickly set up camp, ferrying men and supplies from the ships using small boats. The hardships of the long journey, especially with so many people packed together in cramped quarters, led many to fall ill, particularly the women and children. Fortunately, the inhabitants of the nearby fortress had yet to challenge the newcomers' presence; due to kindness or fear, the Elendili did not know.

  
*******

  
Elendil and Isildur immediately started organising a fighting force. While nearly all of the Faithful's men were trained in wielding weapons ever since the Shadow fell upon Númenor, less than two out of every five men had any professional experience, be it serving in the King's hosts when Tar-Calion decided to challenge Sauron, or being part of Amandil's household guard. Despite their small numbers, the Faithful's men were well-trained even by the standards of Tar-Calion's professional soldiers, in part due to their long years of vigour allowing them to accumulate more experience.  
  
Meanwhile, Anárion organised the treasures and heirlooms of the Faithful. Many precious items of old were brought from Númenor-that-was, some even created before the Isle itself was formed. There was the last seedling of Nimloth the Fair, itself a seedling of the tree Celeborn in Tol Eressëa, which was in turn a seedling of Galathilion, the Tree of Tirion which was made in the image of Telperion, elder of the long-destroyed Two Trees of Valinor. This seedling was stolen by Isildur from the King's Court in Armenelos, a feat which cost Isildur dearly. Yet the fruit of the White Tree was one of the last symbols of an untainted Westernesse, and some rumoured that the White Tree would bless the lands in which it is planted. Then there were the seven Palantíri, given to the Faithful by elves from Tol Eressëa during the darkest days of Númenor. The 'Seeing Stones' could be used to communicate with each other, and observe many things far beyond the range of the unaided eye. Yet the Palantíri were anything but easy to use, only effectively wielded by those of great power. And one of the Faithful's Palantíri could only observe and communicate with the Master-Stone at Tol Eressëa. And there was Narsil. Forged by the famed dwarven smith Telchar in the First Age, Narsil was a heirloom of the House of Elros, yet passed down through the Lords of Andúnië instead of the Royal line.  
  
This was done with the help of his nephew Elendur, who recently came of age. Despite his youth, the 20-year-old Elendur approached the task with an unexpected maturity and skill, directing his men to transport valuable scrolls onto dry land before they become waterlogged. The young man was almost a splitting image of his grandfather, similar to Elendil in both appearance and temperament.  
  
Anárion also had a son of his own, the infant Meneldil who was now on board Anárion's own ship. Knowing that Meneldil was in good hands, Anárion steeled himself, focusing on the task ahead. Using each of the Palantíri, he ensured that all the Seeing-stones could still function properly in these new lands. After testing the first six stones, Anárion placed his hand on the seventh - the one which was once aligned with the Master-stone at Tol Eressëa. He sighed in relief as the Lonely Island comes into view, with its beaches of white sand, and piers lit by strange lamps that do not use fire.  
  
Suddenly, a powerful presence was felt on the Master-stone. An elf-prince of the Noldor, though not of the line of Finwë.  
  
"Where is Amandil, my grandfather whom I dearly love? Has he taken the doom of the Second Kindred, or is he still in Aman?" Anárion asked after curt greetings were exchanged. The elf-prince may have all the time in the world in blessed Aman, yet the Faithful still had a long, hard road ahead.  
  
The elf-prince considered for a moment, then gave a reply that completely took Anárion by surprise.  
  
"Neither. Amandil has delivered his message to the Valar, yet he was not allowed to return to the Outer Lands, a similar judgement given to Eärendil the Mariner at the end of a different age. But Amandil had another choice; to leave Aman on Tar-Calion's ships and enter an unfamiliar world where even the very stars are strange, the same lands which his kin would be sent to. Amandil took that choice, and Tar-Calion accepted his kinsman. Amandil is now once again Tar-Calion's chief councillor."  
  
Anárion quickly uttered a few words of thanks, then broke contact after a few polite farewells and promises to remain in touch. Holding a small Palantír in his hand, he began to frantically search the surroundings in the hopes of glimpsing familiar sails, perhaps even his grandfather. He was soon rewarded by the sight of a massive fleet anchored along the coastline, near an ad-hoc camp surrounding a small fortress. Anárion was unsure about the exact distance between this island and the King's fleet, but it was certainly no more than 40-60 leagues away.  
  
A message was quickly dispatched to Elendil, and before long this stunning news spread like wildfire amongst the Faithful.  
  
For the next few days, Elendil and his household closely monitored the actions of the King's Men using their Palantíri; one focused on the coastal camp, while another was focused on the King's host as it departed. Fierce debate erupted among the Faithful as to their next course of action, with some prefer to remain hidden for the time being while others argued that it would be better to re-establish contact and negotiate favourable terms, seeing as the King's Men were also strangers in a strange land and would appreciate all the help they could get.  
  
Only after a battle is observed did the Faithful reach a consensus. Instead of enslaving their prisoners and slaughtering the wounded, as was almost customary in Númenor's last days, the captives were treated with respect and dignity - an uncharacteristic move for men who were throwing their own kinsmen onto flaming pyres but weeks ago. Perhaps the King and his men had however slightly changed for the better, humbled by their recent experiences in the Undying Lands.


	5. On Bandallon's Parapets

Amandil was once the lord of a great settlement, yet Andúnië now lay under the sea with the rest of Númenor, its people's fate unknown. But the nobleman was once again councillor to the King; despite being openly one of the Faithful, few of the King's Men questioned his leadership in the King's absence. In these trying times, complex debates for morality and piety were best left for the future.  
  
Lord Leo Blackbar left with the King on his campaign, leaving behind his wife and two sons - 15 year old Addam, and 12 year old Axell. Both were good lads, strong in body and bright in mind, eager to learn more about the strange sea-kings who came beyond the Sunset Sea. To sate their curiosity, Amandil told them stories from the days of old, of Beren and Lúthien, of Tuor's arrival at Gondolin, and Eärendil's journey to Valinor, done without hope yet ultimately successful. But he spoke little of Atalantë-beneath-the-waves; aside from it being a 'state secret', the memory was much too soon, and far too painful to bear.  
  
In return, the boys told the once-Lord of Andúnië many things the King would be eager to know about. The lands of the Reach were fertile and fair, with most agriculture concentrated in the southern Reach, near the banks of the Honeywine. But the Reach Proper was centred around the Mander, the kingdom's longest river; on its banks lay Highgarden, the political capital of the Reach and the centre of chivalry. While the boys' descriptions were perhaps slightly exaggerated, it was clear that Highgarden would be a tough nut to crack when the time came to attack the settlement.  
  
House Blackbar appeared to be far less prominent than the Reach's major houses, such as Florent and Hightower, yet having a holdfast and land still made them a landed lord and part of the Reach's nobility. Most of the Reach's smaller houses could field the same number of men, while the larger houses could field thousands - perhaps even nearly ten thousand men in the case of House Hightower. Under the Gardener kings, the Reach could amass a very large army given enough time. There were other houses that provided different contributions; for example, the Redwynes had one of the largest fleets in Westeros, comprising of approximately two hundred warships.  
  
After the boys went to bed, Amandil headed towards the Maester's office to discuss more 'mundane' matters.  
  
These strange lands also had a very unusual climate. Westeros did not have regular seasons, but extremely long seasons of varying lengths, some lasting for several years. The Citadel in Oldtown was tasked with predicting the length of the seasons, yet they were not always successful in their endeavours to do so. Luckily, the Reach's southern latitude meant that farming could be done most of the time except during the harshest winters, not unlike fair Elenna even during its later days. And when the days grew colder, glass houses also helped improve crop yield. The southern Reach was more than capable of feeding itself.  
  
On the whole, the peasants - whom the Maesters called 'smallfolk' - were content to lead their simple, peaceful lives and were largely satisfied with their lords. The high lords' games were utterly beyond their comprehension, with the smallfolk far more concerned about the weather and harvest instead of who sat in the seat of a castle ten miles away. Yet taxes rose at times, and war was not unknown in these lands. During such times the smallfolk, dressed in little more than rags, fought alongside the plate-clad knights, and died in droves.  
  
Over the next few days, most of House Blackbar's men returned to Bandallon castle, having received news of Lord Blackbar's co-operation, or were driven back to their homes by sheer hunger or thirst. The Blackbar soldiers were quickly re-equipped with gear from the castle's armoury and awaited their Lord's return, a quick muster yielding a total of twenty knights and just over five hundred other retainers. The civilians too had been returning, and a sense of normalcy was once again restored to the lands surrounding Bandallon.  
  
The lands surrounding Bandallon were well forested, but it was not nearly enough to repair all the ships; furthermore it would be unwise to antagonise a potential ally by logging all of the trees in his land. Númenor had learnt this lesson several millennia ago, and it would be wise not to repeat the same mistakes. Instead, parts from the more damaged ships would be cannibalised to repair less damaged ones; the cannibalised ships could then be repaired at the King's leisure once a new kingdom was finally established on Westerosi soil.  
  
Luckily, starvation was not a major concern at the moment. Most of the serviceable fleet was now dedicated to fishing, and the Sunset Sea had large schools of fish. Furthermore, the Great Armament had supplies of food and fresh water that could last for at least another month, though a rationing system was already put in place to extend these supplies for even longer. The Maester's words suggested that capturing the southern Reach should help greatly alleviate the impeding food shortage, but further expansion would be ultimately necessary.  
  
Suddenly a small group of horsemen appeared at the gates, bearing white shields defaced with, well, a black bar.  
  
"Father! Father!" Axell ran towards the leading horseman and nearly leapt into his arms, before Addam quickly pulled his brother back.  
  
"Later, sons. Lead my horse to the stables. I need to talk to Lord Amandil in private." As the two youths left holding the horse's reins, Lord Blackbar turned towards Amandil. _Maester's study, now_ , he mouthed.  
  
Blackbar started speaking even before the two men entered the relatively secluded room, handing a short list to the Númenorean councillor. "Hundreds of our men have been treacherously poisoned at Honeyholt. They need herbs as soon as possible. These ones, specifically, and any more that you may know for these symptoms."  
  
Amandil quickly glanced at the list. "I will give this to the healers. When they have prepared the herbs, you shall accompany a host of ten thousand men marching to Oldtown through Brightwater Keep and Honeyholt. Reinforce those castles as much as they need, and deliver the herbs at Honeyholt. Another ten thousand men will march straight towards Oldtown to help the King." While most of the army had already disembarked, many were still recuperating from the relentless storms that hounded the Great Armament all the way to Westeros, giving the Reach and much of Westeros a few more days, weeks, or even months perhaps if they were lucky, of calm before the Númenorean storm.  
  
The sun had long since set when Amandil stood upon a parapet of Bandallon castle, fixating his gaze far to the West. Eönwë had told him that his household and the Faithful would be spared Eru's wrath, having taken suitable precautions thanks to his advice, yet he had not laid eyes on his kin ever since he gazed upon the fair lands of Númenor for the last time. Three long years had since passed, yet to Amandil it was an eternity. And there was still no word of Elendil or his sons a week after the landing.  
  
Perhaps it was time to return, for there was still work to do after the Sunrise, or 'Anarórë' in Quenya, a high tongue of the learnèd in Númenor ere the Shadow fell.  
  
The last Lord of Andúnië was preparing to head back inside the keep when he spotted an unusual glint just above the horizon. The glint was so faint that even an average Númenórean would be hard-pressed to observe any details. Yet Amandil was of the House of Elros, and those of the Faithful lived a life of vigour. The etchings of a device could be barely seen, yet it is one that Amandil could easily recognise.  
  
Seven resplendent silver stars gleamed above a white tree.  
  
Upon careful observation, Amandil noticed that the device was not merely an illusion, but borne upon a black sail, almost invisible against the dark of night. Slowly, the hull of a ship began to appear. The normally stoic Councillor felt his eyes water, then a small drop slowly trickled down the side of his face, having thought that he would never see his family again after the final farewell at Rómenna.  
  
The Faithful had finally arrived.  
  
Amandil rushed towards the coast, nearly out of breath by the time he reaches the docks despite his vigour, arriving just in time to see a lone figure disembark from the ship, clad in golden raiment blazing like the sun under the torchlight.  
  
 _Anárion._  
  


*******

  
Though the mission was potentially perilous, Anárion, son of Elendil son of Amandil, had little to lose. His family was safe in the hastily established camp, defended by several thousand warriors who had their baptism of blood in the King's campaigns almost half a century ago; little Meneldil was safely tucked in his crib, or in his mother's arms. Besides, Anárion was of the line of Amandil, a name that still held much weight in Númenor's last days, even among the King's Men. So there he stand on the prow on your ship, basking in the fresh winds under a starry sky. The letter Elendil entrusted you was in his hands, to be delivered to the King.  
  
Any previous worries were at once dispelled as sailors lined the decks of the King's thousand ships, eagerly waving with helms and hats in their hands. Anárion even spotted a few swords in the mix, perhaps officers or nobility. As the Faithful vessel passed a ship, the sailors on board let out a rambunctious 'hurrah', torches raised high in the air. The Faithful were quick to return the salute as their ship sailed towards the makeshift quays, clearly built but a short while ago.  
  
As Anárion's ship got closer, he finally saw a tall man racing towards the docks, silhouetted against the light coming from a fortification upon a nearby hill, and the massive camp surrounding it. The silhouette slowly disappeared, replaced by an all too familiar face he hadn't seen for several years - Amandil, his beloved grandfather. An eternity seemingly passed before the ship is finally moored at a jetty, and Anárion disembarked just as Amandil reached the opposite end.  
  
For a brief moment, grandfather and grandson stood on the wooden planks, staring at each other. Suddenly Anárion rushed towards Amandil, a surge of warmth rising from his chest, completely abandoning any pretence of abiding by court etiquette. As the two were locked in a tight embrace, Anárion felt a few drops of wetness on his shoulder. Looking closely, one could notice the tears in Amandil's eyes, and Anárion's own pupils begin to water.  
  
"Anárionya! How fare you and the rest of our family?" Amandil asked as the two separated.  
  
"Everyone is safe. _Atya_ and Isildur are back on an island, where we established a makeshift camp, all of Númenor's Faithful are accounted for. I see you are with Tar-Calion's host, what happened in all these years?" Anárion asked.  
  
"My ship landed at Tol Eressëa, where my companions and I stayed for 3 years. When Númenor was destroyed, I was given a choice by Eönwë to either join Tar-Calion's host to new lands and reunite with my household, or remain at Tol Eressëa for the rest of my life. I chose the former, for love of my family and the Men of Númenor."  
  
Anárion glanced around, puzzled by the royal banner's absence. "Where is the King?"  
  
"He has departed with his host more than a week ago; they are currently besieging a city named Oldtown. But come, the night grows cold. Let's return to the castle."  
  
Amandil peered over the Faithful's letter in the warm Maester's study, occasionally removing a sentence here and adding a term there. The Maester himself, or whatever they called learnèd men in these lands, was busy drawing a new map of this continent for the Faithful; apparently, the island they landed on was named Greyshield by the locals, westernmost of the Shield Islands. The continent was (of course) called Westeros, yet there was a separate 'Westerlands' within, similar to the nomenclature of Númenor and Andustar. After conversing with Amandil for a short while, Anárion withdrew to one of the castle's rooms for some much needed rest.  
  
Anárion decided to stay at Bandallon castle for at least few more days, as his men replenished supplies for the ship, minor repairs were made, and the two members of the House of Valandil spent precious time in each other's company. But the second host of troops prepared to march towards Oldtown, the city which the King is now besieging, and Anárion's ship was soon made ready for departure once the nobleman decided to do so. Though Anárion would not leave before the King responded to the Faithful's letter which Anárion and Amandil carefully penned, before it was sent to Honeyholt via raven, to be dispatched via a rider to the King's camp outside Oldtown.  
  
Once again on Bandallon's parapets, the last Lord of Andúnië gazed out at the massive fleet anchored just off the coast, a detailed report in his hand. Out of the thousand ships, around three hundred and fifty made landfall intact or were fully repaired in the past few days, while just under four hundred ships were damaged to various degrees yet could still sail under reduced efficiency; the remaining ships were too damaged to leave Bandallon's vicinity. While the sailors continued to repair the ships as best as they could, there was simply not enough wood to restore all of the damaged vessels.  
  
"Grandfather, should we cannibalise parts from some ships to repair others?" Anárion suggested.  
  
"Cannibalise the more damaged ships to repair the less damaged ones. We don't need that many hulls for now, but all usable ships should function at full capability," Amandil replied.  
  
"I will tell the shipwrights to do so. And the maester asked me to give you a letter from the King."  
  
Amandil took the letter and began to read.  
  
 _Aphanuzîr:  
  
I have received the Faithful's terms, it will be given due consideration once Oldtown is taken. That day fast approaches, an unarmoured enemy host sallied out, hoping to take advantage of the cover of night. Yet they were thwarted, and felled by the blades and darts of Westernesse; masses of the routed enemy was cut down by our native allies. A herald of the enemy approaches even as I pen this letter.  
  
Do not send further reinforcements for now, the current forces are more than sufficient, neither should any vessel engage the Arbor's fleet unless provoked. Otherwise you have leave to deploy the Great Armament's ships as you see fit.  
  
Ar-Pharazôn_  
  


*******

**Several months ago  
Eldalondë, Númenor**  
  
"You are to command the supply fleet, consisting of five hundred ships and half a million men. You are appointed because my dear friend Aphanuzîr has sulked off to Eriador while Nimruzîr and his sons are cramming themselves onto ships. He thinks he's very clever and has outwitted his own king but he should know better, it's an open secret that Rómenna is full of my spies monitoring the Faithful's every move. He moved at least thirty thousand people and all of Andúnië's heirlooms onto those nine ships sitting off Rómenna as if the world was ending. I don't mind, he and his sons can enjoy getting seasick, it's not that the Faithful will fight against the Valar anyway. Zigûr isn't much better, he's trying to drag Nimruzîr off those ships and onto Armenelos' altars despite my explicit orders for him not to do so. Perhaps Aphanuzîr is right, I ought to remind Zigûr of his place once Valinor is ours. Do take your son with you, mariners need to start learning their trade early, and now's a good time for him to undertake his first voyage. Take your daughter as well. Though war is no place for a woman, the Valar would probably be defeated by the time you reach us, and she could enjoy some fresh breeze. Depart Eldalondë after twenty days, and take Dramborleg with you as proof of my authority."  
  


*******

**'Now'  
Blackwater Bay, Kingdom of the Storm, Westeros**  
  
The lilac-eyed man stood on a high hill, his cropped silvery hair almost invisible against the glare of the noon sun. Glancing down at a calm bay, the man nodded as several boats were launched from distant ships, carrying men and supplies to the shores.  
  
Suddenly the sun dimmed. A dark shadow drifted in from the west and shrouded the sky, heralded by a terrible wind. The man's heart chilled as his hand rested on the ruby hilt of his sword.  
  
Before long, the shadow was gone, having fled far to the east. Yet the man was now full of doubt and worry, his mind darkened by the ill omen. Though the sun shone brightly, the day was now cold, colder since the shadow came.  
  
 _Is the last hope of Valyria doomed to fade?_


	6. Meeting their Maker

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Poor Fellows meet their maker.

The gates of Oldtown opened and a rabble of men stormed out, heading straight for the Númenórean lines. But it did not take a Númenórean to see that not only were the charging men all unarmoured, but there was no gleaming of swords or spear-tips. Ar-Pharazôn was amused by the bravery of those unfortunate men, willing to fight a hopeless battle in devotion to their cause. Of course, the King reasoned, this should be rewarded by giving the enemy an opportunity to make the ultimate sacrifice. "Ready the archers. Start loosing when they are prepared," he ordered.  
  
Clad in rags of brown and grey, the foes continued to press on. Most of the King's Men were now formed up directly in front of the intruders, not even bothering to put up any sort of formation more complex than a thin silver line. Heavily armoured men-at-arms stood at the forefront, ready to cut down any foe who somehow survived the torrent of arrows. But today was not their day.  
  
 _"Nock."_  
  
Three ranks of bowmen, themselves as numerous as the entire enemy horde and with short swords of their own, nocked black-feathered arrows onto bows of hollow steel. It was the steel-bows of Númenor that were most feared by those in Middle-earth, and there was no reason this wouldn't soon be the case in Westeros too.  
  
 _"Draw."_  
  
The archers' captain laughed as he raised his sword, ready to give the final order. The dots far in the distance were no longer men but mere crops, ready to be scythed down; today the Númenóreans would reap a plentiful harvest.  
  
 _"Loose."_  
  
Four thousand, six hundred and thirty-five hands ever so gently relaxed into open palms as the captain's sword was lowered. A split second later, a cloud of arrows erupted from the Númenórean ranks. Several heartbeats passed.  
  
Then the enemy's war cries were suddenly cut short, replaced by bloodcurdling screams, as ell-long projectiles from Númenor's finest forges bit deep into their mark. Twenty-five hundred men tottered for an instant, perhaps two. Then they fell, fading away into the everlasting void.  
  
But not before the King's archers had already nocked their next arrows, waiting for their next order.  
  
 _"Loose."_  
  
Another seventeen hundred men were impaled by the relentless darts of Westernesse. Yet their surviving comrades still rushed on, roughspun clothes now liberally splattered with the blood - and worse - of their fallen brothers.  
  
The King's archers nocked their arrows once again.  
  
 _"Loose."_  
  
Of the men who proudly marched from Oldtown's gates, less than two gross had yet to sprout black feathers from their body, ending their miserable lives choking on their blood or clutching their innards. Then the surviving Poor Fellows, having sworn to defend the Faith to the bitter end but a day ago, routed.  
  
Just like any other men.  
  
 _"Hold."_  
  
The sons of Westernesse stood down, leaving an opportunity for Westeros' best warriors to prove their mettle and their loyalty.  
  
Of what remained of the enemy, the smart ones surrendered as hooves thundered across the plains outside Oldtown. The stupid ones ran, and were hewn down by the cruel blades, lances and maces of their own countrymen. Meanwhile, the archers examined their handiwork from afar. In less time than it took to count to a thousand, nearly five thousand men were sent to meet their makers. Eru, Melkor, or another being... did it even matter anymore?

  
*******

  
On a watchtower, Manfred Hightower stood with his jaws agape. Suffice to say, the attack did _**not**_ go as planned. None of the men who sallied out from Oldtown would return for a while; most of them would never return to their homes or plough their fields again.  
  
 _Perhaps it is time to talk._

The Lord of Oldtown now gazed towards the West as the sun slowly set, pondering the future of his House. Oldtown had never been so rich in the history of the Seven Kingdoms, yet its very prosperity and even existence was now threatened by a massive army, encamped just beyond the city's walls.  
  
 _Is Oldtown doomed to fall, sacked by these cruel men who came over the Sunset Sea?_  
  
No, it could not be.  
  
 _The Lord of Oldtown will not yield his city to a horde of barbarians, not without a fight._  
  
But what now?  
  
"Father, look! A new star!"  
  
Ser Morgan Hightower suddenly appeared by his father's side, pointing towards a new star that had suddenly appeared far in the west. One so bright that it almost outshone the Moon, nay, it had already done so. And still it grew brighter. A new star, to challenge the old and wise. Even piety would not save them from gloom and eventual downfall.  
  
 _Perhaps there was no hope after all._

  
*******

**Blackwater Bay, Kingdom of the Stormlands (for now)**  
  
Aegon Targaryen gazed towards the West as the sun slowly set, pondering the future of his House. Valyria's glory was long gone, consumed by the very flames which seemed to blaze across the distant horizon as the Sun's last rays illumined a tired, weary land.  
  
 _Is the last hope of Valyria doomed to fade? Felled by the Shadow which extends its grip even to these western lands?_  
  
No, it could not be.  
  
 _The Last of the Dragonlords will not fade into the everlasting darkness, not without a fight._  
  
But what now?  
  
"Aegon, look! A new star!"  
  
Rhaenys suddenly appeared by Aegon's side, pointing towards a new star that had suddenly appeared far in the west. One so bright that it almost outshone the Moon, nay, it had already done so. And still it grew brighter. A star in the west, to challenge the shadow to the east. Even the Doom could no longer shake their faith in a bright future.  
  
 _Perhaps there is hope after all._  
  


*******

  
The sun had barely risen when Oldtown's gates were once again opened. Yet instead of a host, only a small party of horsemen emerged, riding hard towards the Númenórean camp. Among the party were the sons of Lord Manfred Hightower - Lord Martyn Hightower, the heir of Oldtown, and Ser Morgan Hightower, knight of the Warrior's Sons.  
  
Minutes later, the party was intercepted by a company of spearmen guarding the Númenórean outer perimeter, and brought straight to the King's pavilion among a sea of tents blue, golden, and white.  
  
Reclining in his throne, the King stared amusedly at the kneeling brothers before him. "Rise, and speak as the envoys you are. There's plenty of time for kneeling after oldtown is mine."  
  
Martyn Hightower spoke first. "Lord Manfred Hightower sends his regrets for the recent attack upon your forces. The men who sallied out of Oldtown were of the Poor Fellows, members of the Faith Militant under the command of the High Septon.' Martyn paused to glance at his brother before continuing. "I'm sure Ser Morgan, my brother, would provide an adequate explanation."  
  
"He can account for the faith's actions. But does your father intend to yield Oldtown under the terms announced by my heralds at your city gates?" The King asked.  
  
"Lord Hightower has instructed me that he intends to surrender Oldtown on the condition that our House shall retain battle island as a family seat, and all the treasures that lie within. In return, the rest of the city including the treasuries will be handed intact to the Sunset Peoples; the Sunset King can send a party of his own men to ensure orderly transfer of the city and its riches. Furthermore, House Hightower will serve as a direct vassal to the Sunset King, and instruct all Hightower bannermen to stand down."  
  
The King carefully considered Manfred's words. "And what say you, Ser Morgan?"  
  
"The high septon deeply regrets the actions of the Faith Militant in recent days. The Septon himself fasted for seven days and seven nights in the starry sept, seeking divine instruction from the seven regarding the best course of action for the city. Yet less pious members of the warrior's sons insisted on seeking vain glory, and were unfortunately able to rouse the Poor Fellows into sallying out, intending to use them to soak up arrows before those renegade brothers of the warrior's sons would charge out and attack your forces..."  
  
Unable to restrain his mirth as he recalled the lopsided 'battle', the King suddenly burst out in roaring laughter. "My forces have besieged the city for over seven days, so the illustrious high septon must have had time to contemplate the situation Oldtown is in. Has he received any... instruction from the relevant parties? Perhaps instruction that does not involve the wholesale slaughter or starvation of Oldtown's people? Or shall I send him to his deity of choice so that he could receive such instruction directly?"  
  
"The high septon has indeed foreseen the destruction of Oldtown and its people," Morgan replied, beads of sweat dripping down his brow. "The faith will not fight the Sunset Peoples and has advised Lord Hightower to yield the city. He merely requests that those of the Faith be allowed to openly worship our gods without being disturbed, and that the Faith retains both its Warrior's Sons and the Starry Sept. The Poor Fellows will be disbanded once your forces establish order within these lands."  
  
Having delivered their messages, the brothers stepped back and resumed kneeling.  
  
"Hostilities may cease for now, but tell Lord Manfred and the High Septon that they are by no means final. I will break bread with both of them at the High Tower tonight, we can discuss additional terms in detail then." The King still remembered the hundreds of men who lie at Honeyholt, incapacitated by the poisoned well. Nor was poison unheard of; since Sauron's arrival, men in Númenor slew each other not only with swords, but also with various concoctions devised in dark cellars using vile sorcery. "My men and I are not too familiar with the customs of your lands, having arrived less than a moon's turn ago. Yet my army already has firsthand experience of Westerosi poisons. Being esteemed warriors, both of you certainly have ample experience in commanding armies, so I will not insult your intelligence by pointing out that the men encamped outside your walls would not disband should their king suffer an unfortunate accident within your city walls. Oldtown is a very beautiful city, it would be a shame if it were razed to the ground..."  
  
"Your Grace is surely aware that the Reach is where chivalry originated in Westeros. Poisoning wells is a tactic of war, yet no proper Reachman would ever harm their guests at a feast, least of all those who have eaten of their bread and salt. Guest right is considered sacred in these lands."  
  
"I am sure your lord father and the pious High Septon are as wise as they are honourable. Return now, it will take time to prepare food for tonight. Without any unpleasant additives."

  
*******

  
Martyn and Morgan Hightower stood guard outside a small room near the top of the High Tower, wearing surcoats embroidered with a white tower and a seven-pointed star respectively. They were joined by two Númenórean Royal Guards, bearing the device of Eärendil the Mariner.  
  
Inside the room, Ar-Pharazôn was breaking bread with Lord Manfred Hightower and the High Septon. Looking outside the window, the King took in the picturesque night view of Oldtown, with flickering lights dotting the city far below. Oldtown was no Armenelos or even Andúnië, yet it had a quaint beauty of its own. And from what Manfred has just told him, Oldtown's population rivalled the largest settlements in Númenor-that-was itself.  
  
"I will allow your men to collect and bury your dead after sunrise as a gesture of goodwill. My men will also do what they can to relieve the starving citizens of Oldtown when they march into the city tomorrow, we are aware of the hardships that your 'smallfolk' have suffered in recent days. Both of you should be commended for yielding the city, who knows how many lives have been saved by not stubbornly resisting? Oldtown will neither starve nor be put to the sword."  
  
Lord Hightower smiled as he poured a drink for the King, then another for the High Septon. "The finest Arbor Gold, your Grace. Do you wish to continue discussing terms, or should we revel in feast and song tonight?"  
  
"We will continue discussing some of the terms. A lasting arrangement can be sorted out in the coming weeks or even months, but we don't want any misunderstandings to occur on the first day."  
  
Even as the King spoke, he focused his attention on Manfred Hightower, bending his will to gleam further information, for the King's Men still retained a shred of Númenórean grace from the Elder Days even as they turned their backs on the Valar. Manfred appeared to be worried about his family and his House's fortune, and also cared about the lives of Oldtown's smallfolk. Furthermore the King sensed an underlying current of unease; while Lord Manfred was extremely welcoming towards the Númenóreans now that past 'misunderstandings' had been sorted, he appeared to be a loyal man who did not take oaths lightly, and oaths had been sworn to the Gardeners. While his loyalty was admirable, something would have to be done about his previous allegiances sooner or later.  
  
"The previous terms suggested by your son I will accept for the most part. But the Hightower treasury is to be thoroughly audited before it is returned to your House. The Citadel's contents are also to be well documented and available for requisition when required. The beacon on the top of your Tower will be operated according to my instructions. In times of war or other emergencies, my men may even directly operate the beacon themselves without requiring permission from your House."  
  
Manfred Hightower considered the new terms carefully. "This I can agree to. House Hightower has naught to hide, and the beacon is used to aid ships in their navigation to and from the city. As for the Citadel, Your Grace should speak with the Archmaesters."  
  
"Very well," the King replied. "Also, any construction or major expansions of fortifications, septs and other important structures require my permission."  
  
Somewhat unsurprisingly, the High Septon agreed to limits on the Ecclesiarchal courts, albeit rather reluctantly. After all, even the most devout Poor Fellow or the most ardent Warrior's Son would definitely think twice before entertaining the possibility of laying hands on one of the Sunset People or hindering their King's courts and agents, not unless they wished for an early reunion with the Seven via Númenórean steel. Bending his will, the King sensed that the 'slightly disastrous' sallying attempt by the Faith was deeply etched in the High Septon's mind.  
  
Yet the High Septon proved slightly more difficult to deal with on other issues, such as the Faith Militant. "While I am sure that Your Grace's men are more than enough to hold Oldtown and its environs, the Faith requires followers of the Seven to defend its septs. Furthermore, the Warrior's Sons are anointed knights who have sworn oaths to the Faith, oaths which are not so easily dismissed. The Poor Fellows can be convinced to lay down their arms, perhaps encouraged by worldly incentives. But the Warrior's Sons are a different matter."  
  
Taxes were another difficult issue. "Your Grace, the Faith's wealth is maintained by generous donations from the pious, who would already be paying taxes to their liege lords. Taxing the Faith's properties would be imposing a double-tax on the kind-hearted men and women who contribute to maintaining their septs without expectation of return, which would hardly be fair."  
  
Interestingly enough, the High Septon seemed to have forgotten that the Faith's substantial properties generated quite a lot of revenue on their own, or at least if Lord Blackbar's rumblings had merit. Though Blackbar had also pointed out that the Faith has a rather large expenditure, not least because they were responsible for taking care of the poor, the old, and the frail.  
  
"On account of the Faith's role in helping those in need, any donations made in coin and grain will not be taxed as long as said donations are used for charitable purposes," the King declared. "But the Faith's properties will be taxed at the usual rates, along with any other donations used in furthering the Faith's interests. As for the Faith Militant, the Poor Fellows are to be completely disbanded and its members shall return to their homes; it's a horrible waste of manpower when your 'smallfolk' could be tilling their fields instead. I'm sure you know that they aren't that effective in battle anyway, as demonstrated by recent events..." With a nonchalantly wave of his hand, the King cut off the High Septon's attempts to explain his previous orders to attack the Númenórean forces. "Yes, I'm perfectly aware who gave the order for the Faith Militant to sally out, and why. Count yourself blessed that your head remains attached to your body." The High Septon nervously gazed at the Númenórean monarch, before turning towards his sword Aranrúth which is casually propped against the wall.  
  
"Nevertheless, the past is in the past," Ar-Pharazôn continued dictating his terms. "The Warrior's Sons can remain and fulfil their duties so long as said duties do not conflict with the King's laws, and they are to fight for me when called upon. An oath is to be sworn to that effect, and they are to abide by every law and edict set by myself and my agents. To prevent revolts from occurring, no more than fifty Warrior's Sons may congregate at the same location at any time, unless during times of war when they are fighting under my banners, and no new members are to be inducted into the order without my permission. Lastly, the lords of whatever lands they operate within will be responsible for them."  
  
The High Septon quickly agreed to all of those terms. "Your Grace is too kind," he replied, though once again there was more than a hint of reluctance in his voice.  
  


*******

  
The feast lasted well into the night, but it was soon time for the King to return to his pavilion outside Oldtown. Though not before paying the Hightowers' maester a quick visit.  
  
"Your Grace, this message was sent to Lord Manfred and addresses him, yet it may interest you."  
  
Ar-Pharazôn slowly began to frown as he read the short letter.  
  
 _From this day forth there would be one king in Westeros. Those who bend the knee to Aegon of House Targaryen would keep their lands and titles. Those who take up arms against him would be thrown down, humbled, and destroyed._  
  
"Who is this Aegon?" the King asked.


	7. Ever Faithful

A rider galloped towards Ar-Pharazôn as the King was preparing to enter through Oldtown's gates. "My king, Lord Aphanuzîr has sent a letter. A note has been attached mentioning that the letter is on military matters, and he awaits your swift response as events in the north are unfolding quickly," the messenger said as he delivered a small piece of parchment.

Somewhat unsurprisingly the letter was written in Quenya. Aphanuzîr could have written in Adûnaic, but the Faithful were ever so stubborn. And the King could read Quenya of course, for it was always a good idea to know what one's subjects were thinking, yet it was perhaps politically inexpedient to admit it. So after swiftly skimming through the letter, it went to a retainer who 'translated' it for the King.

_Tar-Calion,_

_Congratulations on your victory at Oldtown against the sallying enemy. The city should fall soon, if you haven't yet taken it._

_I have deployed the Great Armament's ships and men as I saw fit. Components of the more damaged ships have been removed to fix the less damaged ones, we need more functional hulls right now while the other ships can be repaired at our leisure in the future. I was informed by the quartermasters that 133 ships have been repaired using cannibalised parts, resulting in about five hundred undamaged ships and two hundred and fifty damaged ships that can still sail._

_Unfortunately we were unable to locate the resupply fleet that Anárion told me about. The Faithful have been searching for almost a week now, and have even been using some of my seeing-stones to do so, yet their search has so far been fruitless. The newly repaired ships will be assigned to widen the search perimeter, because there may be things that even the seeing-stones could miss especially if a search is done in haste. Though I wish to consult you on the convoys' exact deployment._

_There is also another matter - that of our northern border. Bandallon's maester has received a demand from Mern IX Gardener, ordering Lord Blackbar to march whatever forces he can break out of the castle to Highgarden where he would re-swear an oath of fealty, and there are also signs that the King of the Reach is assembling a massive force to retake his lost lands. We have more than enough men and supplies to either take Horn Hill and dig in along a perimeter all the way to the Mander river, waiting for the enemy to attack our entrenched positions. Or send a force to attack Highgarden before the Gardener forces have time to assemble properly, taking Horn Hill along the way or sending a separate force._

_Either Anárion or I can lead an expeditionary force if necessary; you may recall that my grandson has more than proven his worth in the campaigns against Sauron. But the final decision is yours._

_Ever Faithful_

_Amandil_

"Send eight squadrons of ships north of the Shield Islands to search for the missing fleet. Another five to search between the Shield Island and Bandallon, and another nine south of Bandallon. Strike at Highgarden as swiftly as possible but also deal with Horn Hill. We do not need yet another annoyance on our flanks."

*******

Elendil, son of Amandil and now lord of Greyshield Island, at least after House Grimm surrendered when seeing the massive fleet sent by Amandil to aid the Faithful, finally moved his household to Grimston castle as a temporary headquarters. Though Lord Grimm had yet to pledge allegiance to the Faithful, having sworn sacred oaths of fealty to the Gardener king who still sat at Highgarden, Lord Grimm promised to fight alongside the Faithful should Greyshield come under direct attack but no further. Neither did Elendil intend to force the issue for now, for the ships also brought a letter. One requesting that the Faithful help locate, and rescue if necessary, ships from Tar-Calion's second fleet that left Númenor to resupply the Great Armament.

Isildur had been using the Palantíri to search for the missing supply fleet, being an experienced user of the Seeing-stones. The Sunset Sea stretched as far as the eye can see, Atalantë sadly nowhere to be found. Neither could the ships be located; given the number of days since the Downfall, any ship which hadn't reached Westeros' shores would either be driftwood, or stragglers at best. Yet the convoys from Bandallon continued to unceasingly travel far into the Sunset Sea, hoping to locate their missing kinsmen.

Surveying lands close to home with another Palantír, Elendur noticed something strange at a large city. Smoke was coming from Lannisport, along with significant amounts of rubble within the city; though his relative inexperience prevented him from observing more detail. Yet enough to make out the outlines of several wrecked ships, which were of an eerily familiar design...

"Lord Elendil, Elendur says he found ships from the supply fleet. Or at least what remains of them."

Elendil grabbed the nearest Palantír and homed in straight for Lannisport, aided by centuries of practice. It was difficult to determine how many ships were wrecked, although a reasonable estimate would be around 10-20 based on what he could see. Within the city itself, makeshift barricades had been built around the docks, with significant fighting along the hastily constructed barriers.

"Lord Elendil?"

"Ask Elendur to come to my study at once, Isildur as well. On second thought, that might not be enough. Order every commander and captain to the study."

When the council was finally assembled, Elendil rolled open the map and planned his next moves. The stranded Númenóreans would have to be assisted; nay, rescued. At the end of the day, the King's Men were still Númenóreans, and rescuing them would at the very least do much to heal the centuries-old rift between them and the Faithful. Yet the Faithful soldiers, at least those who were on the Nine Ships, needed to remain on Greyshield and guard their people and treasures.

*******

Standing proudly on the forecastle of his ship, Anárion felt invigorated by the crisp breeze rushing over his face and blowing at his hair. Several banners flew high in the wind, banners bearing a white tree adorned with seven stars for the line of Valandil - lords of Númenor who still remained true to Eru. This could soon change, however, as none of the King's Men he was currently commanding appeared inclined towards Morgoth-worship. Most of the soldiers back at Bandallon also appeared to be slightly different from their former selves after their recent experiences in their misadventure against Valinor, and if people could change for the worse, perhaps they could also change for the better.

_Perhaps even Tar-Calion himself._

_Perhaps there will even be a day when Faithful and King's Men alike stand side by side, both true heirs of the Land of the Star and worthy successors of Eärendil the Mariner._

There were still difficulties, but that day may come sooner rather than later. Gone were the days when Anárion and his family huddled among tens of thousands of Faithful, hoping that the Nine Ships would withstand the howling gales that swept them into these mysterious lands, under these unfamiliar skies. Yet these new lands would not remain unfamiliar for long; after all, the land known as 'Westeros' was their home now. A new home, for a new people - the Faithful and the King's Men may be Númenóreans today, and would still be Númenóreans tomorrow, but for how long ere the Land of Gift fades into myth?

It was long past sunset when Anárion's fleet approached the Shield Islands, preparing to change course towards the Mander's mouth, and straight up the river to besiege Highgarden. Though he could only see two of the Shield Islands, Greyshield and Southshield blocking the other two. The former was almost completely dark, while the latter was illumined with dim lights coming from what he assumed to be the Faithful's camp, though it was hard to ascertain from afar - it could also be the castle known as Grimstone.

However there seemed to be something... off about Greyshield. Taking a more careful look at the island, he soon beheld a strange sight. Far in the distance, dark shapes were blocking out the dim lights emanating from the island, their contours tracing the shapes of massive vessels. Many vessels, in fact, stretching in an unbroken line against the island's length.

Remembering his previous campaigns, Anárion suspected that his fleet would not be easily noticeable to the untrained eye due to the dark backdrop of the night sky, though this would almost certainly change should he use signalling lamps to issue orders to the other ships in his fleet, and flag semaphore was not possible for obvious reasons. Of course, such orders could be given using messengers on small boats, though this would take time. As he glanced around, Anárion noticed the captain and other officers staring at him, clearly expecting orders to be given.

"Ask the other fleet to show themselves."

Anárion could not help but hold his breath as his signaller began flashing the signal lamp, requesting the mysterious fleet to identify itself. This was immediately followed by a message to the other ships, ordering them to prepare for combat should it be necessary. The soldiers on Anárion's own ship were also also readying themselves for battle, many checking their swords or inspecting their bows under their officers' careful eyes. Númenor may have been the dominant sea power in Arda and this may still hold true in these new lands, yet one could never be too sure. And besides, there were always the foolish and the brave, and those men were often the most dangerous, for a sane man would think twice before attacking a large fleet such as Anárion's. But then again, the mysterious fleet was by no means small either.

Luckily there would most certainly be no fighting tonight, for the mysterious fleet began to reply with their own signal lamp in a readily identifiable code. They were undoubtedly Númenórean, and almost certainly from the King's Men fleet Amandil sent to reinforce the Faithful that set out days before Anárion's own fleet did. Anárion finally let out a sigh of relief, yet relief quickly gave way to joy as he continue to read their message - not only were they men of Andustar, the region where the city of Andúnië and hence the House of Valandil lay, but Isildur was in command of the fleet. He could not help but imagine that his brother was feeling similar emotions right now, as the signaller relayed a similar message disclosing the identities of Anárion's fleet and its commander.

"Signal the rest of our ships to set sail towards Isildur's fleet, and prepare the small boats on this ship. I'm going across to talk to my brother."

Isildur personally pulled Anárion on board his ship as he climbed up the rope ladder.

"How are my wife and children?"

Isildur smiled. "Safe and warm. We took Grimstone after you left, and _atar_ moved our household and the palantíri into the castle, which is where we now live and take counsel when necessary. Most of the Faithful are still in our camp, we can't fit everyone in Grimstone after all. _Atar_ is now managing the island and ensuring our supplies last as long as possible while we try to find a good place to settle, and Elendur is in charge of the palantíri now that I'll be gone for a while."

"And Meneldil?" Anárion's thoughts turned towards his youngest child. The baby had experienced quite a lot for a one-year-old; his face was rather green when the Nine Ships were battered by the merciless winds on the way to Westeros, even vomited a few times.

"Meneldil seems to be adapting quite well. At least he now sleeps soundly, and appears to have recovered from the storm."

As it turned out, several ships from the supply fleet had been located via palantír at a city known as Lannisport, a few hundred miles north of the Shield Islands. The ships themselves appeared to be little more than wrecks, and Elendur had also seen signs of fighting going on within the city. Isildur was therefore taking all of the Andustar reinforcements north to conquer Lannisport, rescuing the trapped King's Men and perhaps using the city as a base to conduct further search operations.

"How many ships and men do you have?" Anárion asked. Isildur's fleet was clearly smaller, roughly half of Anárion's own.

"Fifty ships and ten thousand men," Isildur replied. "We are heading to Lannisport to rescue the men trapped there. _Atar_ cannot send more soldiers or our own defences would be compromised, and Grimstone's maester had warned us of raids by fierce Ironborn. Elendur tried to find the Iron Fleet but we could not locate it, though I do not think they can maintain their ships, based on what the maester said about the Ironborn building a massive castle in the Riverlands and bankrupted their own kingdom. But we can never be too careful." On the bright side, Bandallon - and significant reinforcements - were only several days away. Thanks to the palantíri, any attempts at landing by a potential invader would also be an opposed one, and almost certainly resulting in massive casualties for said invader.

"Do you need my help?" Anárion offered. "Highgarden could wait."

"I would be more than glad to have more ships and men, yet I do not need it, and it would be wise to take Highgarden sooner rather than later. Go! For I shall relieve our kinsmen at Lannisport with my own fleet."

*******

After his son Isildur left for Lannisport, Elendil turned his attention towards other matters.

Although the Faithful now securely held Greyshield Island, there were still three nearby islands that may pose a significant threat, for their lords were sworn to House Gardener whom the Númenóreans were now at war against. Yet the Shield Islanders had not attacked the Faithful yet despite their proximity, even before the Andustar reinforcements arrived, suggesting that they were either unable or unwilling to do so. With those reinforcements now gone, it would be difficult if not impossible to conquer the other three islands, and besides it may have resulted in meaningless bloodshed. _Perhaps negotiations would be a good idea_ , Elendil thought.

There was much to do on Greyshield Island itself. Most of the Faithful were still residing in makeshift tents or on the Nine Ships, and due to their occupation Greyshield’s economy had ground to a halt. Elendil suspected that the Faithful would relocate to Highgarden once it was taken, but they still needed better accommodation for the time being, and the Shield Islands would be vital to the Númenórean realm soon to be established. But perhaps that task would have to wait.

Meanwhile Elendur had been unceasingly surveying the nearby lands and seas using the Palantíri, hoping to catch more glimpses of the supply fleet or other intelligence. Yet using the Palantíri was a daunting task, and there was simply far too much area to survey effectively, Westeros being an extremely large continent. Worse still, Elendur appeared to be growing tired, not least because of his youth and relative inexperience. So Elendil himself took over the survey of nearby lands and seas using the Palantíri, while Elendur was dispatched to negotiate with the other Shield Islands.

Elendur was also placed in charge of managing Greyshield's infrastructure and economy. The Nine Ships, which were still beached, would be pushed back out to sea though the young man suspected much effort would be required to do so. The massive vessels would be used as fishing boats to supplement the Faithful's rapidly depleting food supplies. Greyshield's battered longboats would also be repaired once the Faithful could spare time to manage the project, patrolling nearby waters to warn of attacks now that the Palantíri were not regularly used. Much work needed to be done on the harbour as well, to accommodate the Nine Ships which were of much larger draught. The fleet, once repaired, may not be as large as that of the Great Armament's but should be servicable for the island's population. Yet such work had to wait, for Elendur simply could not spare enough time to manage those projects while also dealing with the other three islands' nobility.

Right now, several structures were slowly being built. Greyshield would become an important port between the southern Reach and Lannisport once the latter is taken, which required the construction of many warehouses and housing for the supplies and garrison. Yet little housing was constructed for the Faithful, still mostly huddled in makeshift tents, for Greyshield was not suitable for housing such a large population in the long term. The Faithful would have to live elsewhere.

Lord Amandil mentioned in his letter that Highgarden could be used to temporarily house the Faithful once it is taken, at least until the entire Reach was pacified and the new Númenórean realm - Tar-Calion wished to name it Adûnabâr - was formally established and lands were granted to the Faithful. New settlements would have to be raised soon. Elendur had heard many suggestions on building a major port city at the mouth of the Mander river. _Perhaps a Númenórean city spanning both banks of the river, with the King's Men on one bank and the Faithful on the other, living side by side in peace._ Elendur would have ridiculed himself over such dreams less than a month ago, yet many things have begun to change. _Maybe_ _even Tar-Calion himself.._

"Lord Elendur?" A messenger appeared, interrupting Elendur's thoughts. "The Shield Islanders' noblemen have arrived."

Lords Chester, Hewett and Serry shifted uneasily in their seats as Elendur entered the camp. Ever since the great storm less than a moon's turn ago, the Sunset Peoples that the storm brought along had occupied Greyshield and encamped on the island; forty thousand, if the rumours were true. Worse still, yet other rumours and messages from the mainland suggested that the current host at Greyshield composed less than even a tithe of the Sunset Peoples. The mere thought of this sent cold chills down the lords' spines. After all, a million-strong army had never been assembled on Westerosi soil, not even in myths.

Until now.

"My lords, you have read the parchment Lord Hightower sent to Greyshield. The wax clearly denotes its authenticity, and I assume similar messages had been dispatched to your respective castles, which you can verify should you doubt its authenticity. With the southern Reach now in Númenórean hands and Highgarden soon to be under siege, surely you can't expect any more substantial trade between the Islands and the Mainland. Your steadfast loyalty is certainly admirable, yet do you not have responsibilities to your vassals and subjects as well? Do you wish to see them starve?"

The three lords began to murmur amongst themselves. While they were willing to travel to Greyshield in person to negotiate, even under the risk of being taken hostage, they were clearly uneasy with the idea of betraying the Gardeners and the Kingdom of the Reach itself. Before negotiations began, Grimstone's maester reminded Elendur that the Reach was home of Westerosi chivalry - which he now used to his advantage.

Yet the Faithful's own supplies were also depleting at a rapid rate. While they transported all of Númenor's Faithful that Elendil and his family could find and trust, along all of their house's heirlooms, the Nine Ships brought very little in the way of essential supplies. The Andustar reinforcements' timely arrival greatly reduced the pressure on logistics, yet a long term solution must be sought, and the Faithful would need to hold their own lands. The Shield Islands themselves would be a good start; they could either be retained after the war is over, or perhaps be traded to Tar-Calion for other lands. In the short term, however, the Faithful aimed to secure the native islanders' co-operation or at the very least non-intervention.

Finally Lord Hewett began to speak. "We are willing to at least consider any proposal that does not involve the Shield Islanders swearing allegiance to the Sunset Peoples, not while the Gardeners still rule Highgarden. This is done for the Shield Islands. Not for the Reach, not for Highgarden. And not for you."

The other two lords glanced at Lord Hewett with uncertain faces, then turned towards Elendur.

"I very well understand your positions and your loyalty towards the Gardeners, not least because the Lords of Andúnië have similarly been faithful to our own King despite grave theological differences. The Faithful of Númenor will therefore offer you a truce; our forces will not attack yours, nor will yours attack ours, ere the current fate of Highgarden has run its course. But the spears of Númenór are still sharp, nor is the blood of Anadûnê spent. Seek not to deceive Elendur Isildurion nor betray our truce should you agree, lest the wrath of Westernesse fall upon your houses. Choose now, and beware!"

The three Shield Islanders slumped at their seats, mouths agape and faces struck with wonder. Despite his youth, for Elendur was yet to grow into full manhood by the reckoning of his people, he was still of the line of Valandil of the House of Elros, a proud son of the Land of Gift - if Tar-Calion did not embark on his cursed expedition in his vanity, he would even have become Lord of Andúnië one day. Instead, he was now negotiating with several foreign lords in a foreign castle. Home was lost to Elendur, to the true sons and daughters of Eärendil now crowded on this tiny island, Arda out of their reach. Yet Eru's hand is surely still at work.

Elendur turned his thoughts towards the future of the Faithful, and that of his family. While there was much intermingling between the Edainic bloodlines after Númenor was founded, the dark-haired, Sindarin-speaking Bëoreans mostly settled in the northwestern part of the island, leaving the rest to the Marachians. The division between the Faithful and King's Men were not only a matter of religious piety, but also one of ethnicity with most Faithful belonging to the House of Bëor. With fertile fields and rolling hills, the lands around the Mander's lower reaches may be a new home for not only Valandil's descendants and the Faithful, but what used to be of Andustar's population as well. In long discussions during the night, Elendur had been pouring over Westerosi maps provided by Grimstone's maester, along with his grandfather and father ere the latter's departure. Should Tar-Calion not wish to take those lands for his own, these lands would most likely be settled by the Faithful and other Bëoreans.

After exchanging hushed words, the three lords seated before Elendur finally agreed to a truce; yet their apparent reluctance suggested that they were yet to witness the full splendour of Númenórean might. As Elendur escorted them to their ships, the Guards of Andúnië snapped to attention along the route, clad in bright mail and holding well-forged spears. The Shield Islanders scurried to their ships, eager to escape the piercing gazes of the guardsmen, standing tall and terrible under the Faithful's banners.

What have the Faithful brought, over the Sunset Sea?

_Seven stars and seven stones and one white tree._


	8. Cobbled Streets and Fragrant Air

Dozens of men were cramped into a small keep, a crude construction hastily built from earth and wood. Yet at least there was now a roof over their heads but one week, perhaps slightly more, after the landing.

Aegon 'the Dragon' paused as he waited for his men to finish chattering. Some of them were from houses sworn to House Targaryen for years, others the defeated lords from the nearby castles which Aegon conquered. Though they were now all his bannermen, for Aegon had accepted oaths of fealty from those who laid down their arms before him. To his left, his sisters Visenya and Rhaenys. To his right, his stalwart commander Orys Baratheon.

"You may already have heard rumours that a host, thousands strong, is marching towards us. I've gathered you all here to discuss our plans to deal with Lords Darklyn and Mooton, but first I will delegate responsibilities." He now faced his 'inner council'. "Does anyone here want to stay behind?"

It was Visenya who next spoke. "I'll take care of our camp when you're away. Right now Aegonfort is little more than a keep, Rhaenys and I will manage the rest of the fort's construction."

"Very well." Aegon turned towards his only true friend. "Orys, do you wish to lead our armies?"

Orys nodded. "Gladly, my lord. I assume you are taking Balerion?"

Just as Aegon was about to speak, a messenger bursts into the keep, a parchment in his hand. "There's an urgent message for you m'lord. It requires your immediate attention." The messenger hands over the rolled parchment before taking his leave.

Aegon's brow furrowed as he glanced at the first line of the message, yet did not express any further emotion or even say a word as he continued reading. The gathered lords began murmuring amongst themselves, wondering what had happened to trouble even a man with three dragons at his disposal. His sisters Visenya and Rhaenys were even more worried; though Aegon was still putting on a facade of confidence, it became increasingly clear that something had happened. And not necessarily to the Targaryens' advantage, if his expression was anything to go by.

Setting down the parchment, the Lord of Dragonstone turned towards his bannermen old and new.

"The current campaign will have to wait. You are all dismissed, I will speak privately to Visenya and Rhaenys."

*******

Oldtown's walls were lined with people, citizens anxious to catch a clear glimpse of the Sunset Peoples, now arrayed in splendour near the wide-open gates. Ar-Pharazôn rode towards the small delegation standing under the archway, recognising Lord Hightower, his sons, and the High Septon amongst them. There were also several unfamiliar faces, perhaps the archmaesters of the Citadel. The King would have time to meet them later, but there were other matters to sort out first.

The King dismounted as Lord Hightower proclaimed the city's surrender.

"I, Lord Manfred Hightower, do hereby yield the city of Oldtown to Ar-Pharazôn the Golden, King of the Númenóreans. His orders and his men are to be obeyed in accordance with the agreement we reached, details of which are posted in leaflets all over the city." With that, Lord Hightower hands over the keys of the city. Having received the keys, Ar-Pharazôn then mounted his horse and rode through the city's gates, his host following as they marched into Oldtown with rhythmic footsteps.

The Battle of Oldtown may be over, yet the Battle for Westeros had just begun.

Riding along the cobbled streets of Oldtown, the King enjoyed the wild cheers of the citizens lining the streets as they welcomed their conqueror's triumphant entrance. A myriad of plants, many bearing fruit, added to the soft fragrance that seemed to permeate throughout the city. Though it was less than a month ago, the Akallabêth - the term the Adûnâim now used for the Fall of 'Anadûnê' - seemed like a bad dream from a timeless eternity ago. It would not be long until these new lands would be theirs to rule... absent any further trouble, of course.

Suddenly the cheers were silenced, smiles on many faces replaced by expressions of doubt as a winged shadow falls upon the city.

The King looked up.

And that's when he saw it. Some... creature, which no Adûnâim, not even those of the royal house, since Azrubêl had ever beheld.

_**A dragon.** _

The King turned towards the Adûnâ guard riding beside him, a tall and proud man from the King's land Arandor. His mouth was agape, staring at the strange sight that was the cause of much murmur not only among the citizens, but also those within the King's party. The King's keen ears picked up whispers of 'Targaryen' and 'invader'.

Then the dragon was gone, as swiftly as it appeared, and the skies were clear again. A bright sun, shining upon the beautiful city that was now the King's. For now, at least...

Lord Hightower rode up beside the King. "Where do you want to go, Your Grace? The Citadel, mayhaps, or do you wish to take a tour of the city?"

"A tour of..."

Suddenly a figure leapt off his horse and grunted as he rammed into the King, armour and all, spreading his body over his liege lord. Neither of the two had hit the ground when a crossbow bolt whizzed past Ar-Pharazôn's head. Then a *clunk* as the bolt hit metal, followed by a loud scream. The King's head was roughly knocked against the ground with a sudden burst of pain. He raise his hand towards the source of the pain. He felt blood.

A crossbow bolt had pierced Ser Morgan's armour and embedded itself in his arm, blood now slowly seeping through the edges of the hole. Morgan's face was now pale white, as he ripped a piece of ragged cloth from his tunic to staunch the blood flow. The knight then tumbled off his horse, steel armour clanging on the cobblestones.

Several heartbeats later, dozens of Hightower guards detached themselves from the procession, swarming towards where the assassin was likely located. Yet the assassin was nowhere to be seen, leaving behind only a heavy crossbow and two further bolts in their haste to escape. The crowd lining the streets were now pushing each other in a desperate struggle to leave, a mix of hoarse cries and heavy footsteps adding to the commotion. Other guards had raced ahead to cordon off the streets, preventing further potential assassins from approaching the convoy. Several Númenorean warriors dismounted and formed a spear wall along both sides of the street, bracing against more crossbow bolts that may be aimed at their King, who now ran towards one of the spear walls and sat down behind it, drawing Aranrúth while doing so. There were times when the majesty of the line of Eärendil was to be displayed. This was clearly not one of them.

Lord Manfred Hightower had also drawn his own sword, Vigilance, if the King recalled correctly, and now ran towards Ser Morgan, cradling his second son's head when he finally arrived. Meanwhile his firstborn Martyn approached Ar-Pharazôn _,_ hand on his sword-hilt. Considering the circumstances, the King refrained from calling out on such a breach of proper manners, for now a small stream of blood was slowly trickling down the side of the King's face, and his armour hadn't been properly adjusted after falling onto the petal-strewn ground. Not exactly a dignified appearance for a King, yet it was currently the least of his worries.

"Orders, Your Grace?" Martyn Hightower gruffly asked.

"Tell your brother Ser Morgan and anyone else who is injured to head back to the Hightower with an escort," the King ordered. "Get their injuries treated promptly, I trust your maester can do the job. If he can't, it might be time for a new maester. Return once you've issued those orders."

Without waiting for Martyn's response, he then turned towards Lord Manfred Hightower. "You shall remain at the site and continue searching for the assassin. Take as many men as you need from both the city watch and my host."

"But what about yourself, Your Grace?" Lord Hightower asked.

"My men and I will continue the tour, and your elder son should be familiar enough with the city to act as my guide." Ar-Pharazôn noticed that the rest of your party is waiting for further instructions, along with Martyn who had just returned. "A lowly knave will not daunt the scions of Eärendil. Carry on!"

Yet Aranrúth remained unsheathed. The next assassin would feel the keen bite of Westernesse's finest sword, forged by the Elder Kindred deep in the mists of time and passed down the Númenorean royal line through Elros Tar-Minyatur. And the blade was no less deadly in mortal hands.

With Hightower guards now racing ahead to scout out the route, and a company of Steel Bowmen marching on each side of the main group, no more bolts were directed against the host as the Númenoreans and their new allies rode triumphantly through streets wide and narrow. Only cheers, and more cheers. There were even several banners waving lazily in the wind, some bearing the stone white Hightower, others displaying the radiant star that shone brightly over the Sunset Sea but days ago. Still others appeared to be crude imitations of the Star of Eärendil; the Númenoreans could not help but laugh at the lack of artistic talent among the Westerosi. Or more likely the lack of far sight, for their camp was far away from Oldtown's walls, and few if any of Oldtown's citizens could observe their banners in detail. Courtesy of the Steel Bowmen, those who did no longer counted among the living.

Ar-Pharazôn begin to appreciate the sheer scale of Oldtown as the host slowly weaved its way through the city. It was no Armenelos or Romenna, most likely not even Andúnië. But it was Westeros' largest city after all, appearing to be larger than even most Númenórean settlements. The liberal use of stone would also not look too out of place in the gentle grasslands of Mittalmar or the sloping cliffs of Forostar. Although if this was the Westerosi's finest city, then their architecture could do with much improvement - Númenor's stonework was yet unparalleled in these strange lands as well.

Taking note of the numerous taverns and inns, the King suspected that Oldtown might well be able to accommodate much of his host, at least for the time being. "What is the population of Oldtown?"

"Around half a million, Your Grace," Martyn promptly answered.

"Very well. My men will need lodgings and Oldtown should be able to provide it." The King paused as Martyn's face began turning sheet white. "No, not the whole host. Don't be absurd, I have more than a million men encamped at Bandallon. And yes, the rumours are true," he nonchalantly continued the commentary. Martyn did not reply.

 _A large garrison would keep Oldtown in line too. Not that the Hightowers would be easily considering a revolt, not after hearing the size of my host,_ the King thought, as he passed the numerous Guildhalls, slowly making his way upriver. Guilds also appeared to have much significance in Westeros. Perhaps there were skilled artisans in Oldtown after all. With so much trade passing through this city, it was only natural that the best sought their fortune here. Deep down, were the Númenóreans and Westerosi really that different?

_Another question for another day. There is still much to do._

The sun had risen high in the sky when the entourage finally reached the Citadel's gates. The magnificent archway was flanked by two strange creatures, a mixture of different animal parts, yet their faces were undoubtedly human, male and female. The damp cobblestones and darkened walls only added to the gloomy atmosphere, shrouding the gigantic building that looms over the entourage. The sky was clear, yet the King's mind was clouded. _Is it the assassination attempt this morning, or what this building may hold?_

Martyn Hightower rode up to the long archway with two trumpeters, respectively bearing the Hightower sigil and Eärendil's device, and knocked his sword against the stones. "Ar-Pharazôn the Golden, King of the Sunset Peoples and Overlord of Oldtown, demands entrance to the Citadel. Those within are to welcome His Grace into the Citadel's halls, without delay." Of course this was but mere formality; the Conclave had already been notified of the King's arrival the previous night and had made the necessary preparations. No sooner had Martyn announced Ar-Pharazôn's presence did a small party emerge, old men with ornate chains around their neck. Black links, gold links, even links fashioned out of an interesting metal he had never seen before. Perhaps the King could ask the 'Archmaesters' about this unfamiliar metal during his inspection of the Citadel.

The leading Archmaester bowed with a pompous flourish. "We've heard much news about you and your men, Your Grace, though you and your host had arrived barely more than a fortnight ago. I am beyond honoured to finally meet a learnèd King of your unparalleled stature. The Citadel is yours, my liege."

The wooden drawbridge's planks creaked as the small entourage headed towards the Isle of Ravens. Lord Martyn and a few Archmaesters were by the King's side, along with members of his guard - loyal men, mainly recruited from Arandor, who had sworn to defend their king with their blades and indeed their very lives if necessary, having shown their mettle right after the crossbow bolt was loosed. The Hightower guards were considerably slower but they were not bad by Westerosi standards, for one couldn't expect them to be as skilled as the High Men of Númenor.

The castle looming ahead was ancient, its walls draped with vines and moss. "Your Grace, the western tower houses the white ravens, which are only used to announce the coming and going of seasons. Meanwhile, the black ravens are kept in the northern tower, where messages are sent and received. Since Your Grace wishes to learn more about recent events, our party would visit the northern tower," one of the Archmaesters suggested.

"As you wish. But tell me more about the seasons in Westeros." the King ordered as the group heads towards the northern tower and up towards the rookery located within, and the Archmaester started to explain. Unlike the fair lands of Elenna, Westerosi seasons were extremely long and could last for years, as several people had already hinted in the past. The seasons' lengths were not predictable either despite the Citadel's best efforts, though they could determine the changing of seasons by carefully monitoring the change in temperature. A white raven was sent out when the Citadel decided that a new season has begun.

_These new lands may indeed be even stranger than we first thought, after all._

*******

During the last few days, the Ravenry was embroiled in a flurry of activity as messages flew in from East and West. It was the first time Westeros was invaded from the east since Nymeria's ships arrived at Dorne, and never before had the continent been invaded from the west. Even the Gardeners had sent a raven ordering the Citadel to provide info on the newcomers' host; a demand left tactfully unanswered on account of the huge army encamped outside the city walls.

"Give me information on the Targaryens and the Southern Reach, along with any information that might be of interest to me." the King ordered.

Under Aegon the Dragon-lord, House Targaryen's forces landed at the mouth of Blackwater Rush less than a month ago - in fact, on the very same day that the Great Armament landed at Bandallon. However the Targaryens had far fewer men and resources, with their greatest assets being their three dragons. Aegon and his sisters had conquered several minor castles, and apparently raised at fort on a hill overlooking the spot where he landed. Most of the letters mentioned several local lords were marching against Aegon, but there were also substantial rumours from several sources suggesting that the Targaryens seem to have abandoned their plans to march on Harrenhal or Storm's End due to recent news they received. That, perhaps, would explain the dragon seen earlier today.

Meanwhile, the Dornish had begun constructing fortifications along the Prince's Path and Boneway. Nightsong's maester sent a message to the Citadel reporting sightings of Dornish scouts along the border, along with rumours of large Dornish hosts amassing within the passes. The Martells might not be solely preparing for a defensive war after all; with the Reach and Stormlands now busy dealing with invaders, Dorne might attempt to take a bite out of those kingdom's respective territories. On the King's orders, a maester transcribes the Nightsong message and attached it to a raven bound for Bandallon, where a messenger would be dispatched to notify Amandil, now leading a host to invade Horn Hill.

Still other Maesters busily sifted through a stack of letters that originated from the Reach, picking out every reply to the King's previous demands ordering various lords to surrender. Unsurprisingly, every single lord in the southern Reach yielded, being reminded of their allegiances to House Hightower and the might of the Númenóreans. However the Arbor appeared to be far more troublesome. The King clenched his fists as the maesters read out the lord's insulting reply, shaking his head in disbelief over the Redwynes' insolence. _House Redwyne's rightful overlord is Mern IX Gardener, King of the Reach. Ar-Pharazôn of the Sunset Peoples has no claim on either the Arbor or any other part of the Kingdom of the Reach_.

"What do you think of it?" the King asked Martyn Hightower as he read the message. "Can your House deal with them, by force if necessary?"

"Your Grace, the Hightower fleet may be formidable but it is no match for the Redwyne fleet. Perhaps if Your Grace can spare some of your ships, or perhaps even men, a sufficient force could be used to invade the Arbor. Yet we might have sufficient strength to impose a blockade on the Arbor and close off Oldtown from the Arbor's ships; they are likely to surrender when their coffers and supplies begin to run dry." Martyn paused. "However, there is a rather substantial chance that said blockade could be broken given the Redwyne fleet's strength."

_Perhaps the Bandallon fleet would be useful._

But all of the undamaged Númenórean ships had already been tied up on other tasks, namely searching for the missing fleet, defending Greyshield, and supplying invasion forces against Lannisport and Highgarden; recalling them on short order would not be feasible. This left only the Hightower fleet - and perhaps the damaged ships at Bandallon - for an invasion across the Redwyne Straits.

The sky was now beginning to darken, and it was time to leave.

The Star of Azrubêl shone brightly as the mounted entourage slowly trotted along the streets of Oldtown once more. Even in these strange lands, the forefather of the Númenóreans seemed to have remained a guiding star for his exiled descendants. _Hope remains. Azrubêl would never abandon his kin, regardless of what paths they tread._

Cries of "Your Grace" or "Seven Blessings to the King" could be heard whenever the King passed through a relatively crowded area, but both sides of the group's path were now flanked by guards lest anyone attempt a repeat of the assassination attempt during the morning. No human assassin would make it through the two rows of spearmen, while Adûnâim steel-bows along with Hightower crossbows were more than sufficient to make any further attack a suicidal venture.

Before leaving the Citadel, the King ordered the Maester to send a raven to the Arbor, once again demanding their surrender. The letter was also signed by a Hightower, Martyn in this case, yet it was written in a significantly harsher tone that left little room for negotiation. And should they still refuse to surrender in a reasonable timespan, the third letter would probably be delivered by the Men of Westernesse landing at Ryamsport instead of by raven.

Another raven was sent to Bandallon., with orders to find more wood within the conquered territories to repair the damaged ships, or buy it from surrounding kingdoms if possible. Though the King strongly suspected that none of the neighbouring kingdoms would wish to sell strategic resources which would help his armies conquer their lands, and repairs would take time as new parts would need to be made from the lumber. Nevertheless, those ships would need to be repaired sooner or later, and there were a lot of men idling at Bandallon who could be put to work. Yet a third raven was sent to Greyshield, instructing the Faithful to keep a close watch on the Arbor with the Seeing-stones. The King chuckled at the thought of Amandil and his household not realising that he knew about their... little secrets. _As if the King of Anadûnê would not know the comings and goings of his subjects, King's Men and Faithful alike..._

Muffled footsteps, gradually growing louder. Then a shrill, desperate cry. One that was abruptly cut short.

A severed head rolled onto the street, eyes open and its mouth still gaping in a silent scream. A fountain of blood erupted from where the neck used to be, splashing the surcoats and chain-mail of several unlucky guards and dyeing their uniforms a bright crimson. Moments later, the head was followed by the rest of the body, bowels torn wide open, hands clutching a pile of entrails. The feet drummed once as they hit the ground, then were stilled forever. More blood spurted from various wounds and openings in the body, slowly forming a red pool in the middle of the street. As spectators stared at the scene, immobilised by sheer horror, a crossbow was tossed onto the road, wood clanging as it smashed into the cobblestones.

Out of the shadows, a man emerged from a sidestreet, a notched, bloodied sword in hand. He slowly placed the sword onto the ground and raised both hands as he was surrounded by a circle of spears. "Sorry to disturb you, Your Grace, but this knave was attempting to loose several bolts into your host. He evidently had some grudge against the Hightowers or Your Grace. Whatever it was, he seems to have lost his head over the matter." _This lilac-eyed man could be an interesting figure_ , the King thought as he stared intently at the man. "My apologies. My friends have always said that I really lack a sense of humour."

The man who cut down the assassin wore an eye-patch over his left eye, cropped hair also suggesting a military career which he quickly confirmed. "Spent many of my years fighting as a sell-sword, Your Grace. Though a battle against Volantis left a heavier toll than I expected," The man ruefully pointed towards his left eye. "At least I'm still alive, but Essos is too dangerous for my liking. Never thought I would be fighting again so soon, I've barely arrived a week or two ago."

As he spoke, he flipped the assassin over and retrieved 3 crossbow bolts from the body, carefully examining them for clues as to who sent the bumbling fool. "Your Grace, the man is most likely not from Dorne or the crossbow bolts would have been poisoned. However crossbows are not exactly an uncommon weapon, so it's hard to narrow it down further than that..."

Martyn Hightower suddenly interrupted the sellsword. "Your Grace, perhaps it would be wise to reward this brave man. He certainly deserves it, not least considering the risk he took when tackling the assassin, and others would be more willing to join your cause if leal service is properly rewarded."

"Very well," the King answered. "He shall join us for the feast tonight."


	9. Welcoming Feast

Spurred on by the prospect of food, Ar-Pharazôn’s entourage returned to the Hightower in haste. Among them was the skilful sell-sword who cut down the assassin, who had accepted the invitation to dine at tonight's feast celebrating the Númenorean host's entrance and the end of the siege. The remainder of the Oldtown tour appeared to be rather uneventful, and Pharazôn soon found himself ascending the steps leading up to the Hightower. After a quick inspection of their lodgings, the entourage headed towards the great hall where the feast was held.

Pharazôn had barely passed through the doorway when a young man appeared from the crowd of guests, clad in a white doublet embroidered with a grey wolf. His dark eyes and hair accentuated the paleness of his skin.

Lord Manfred Hightower was prompt to perform his introductions. "Your Grace, this is Lord Brandon Snow, half-brother and envoy of King Torrhen Stark, King in the North. My Lord, this is Ar-Pharazôn, King of Adûnabâr and Lord of the Sunset Peoples. As you are well aware, his Grace is the guest of honour of this feast."

The discerning Manfred had placed Pharazôn at the head of the main table, with an ornate chair to boot. While the Hightowers, High Septon and several archmaesters were also dining at the main table, Manfred most likely assumed that Pharazôn would be more interested in speaking with the Stark envoy and the sell-sword, and hence arranged for them to be seated on either side of him. Meanwhile, other notable citizens of Oldtown were busy making small talk at the lesser tables - an assortment of nobles and merchants eager to receive first-hand accounts of their new overlords and the progress of the war.

Out of the background noise, Pharazôn faintly made out various points of discussion. Several guildmasters were busy arguing about how the steel-bows were produced and their advantages over traditional bows, complete with diagrams drawn on napkins or even the tablecloth in one instance, while the merchants appeared to be more concerned about the price of food, various metals, and bow-string. The nobility preferred to speculate about the strategies and tactics that would be used by the Númenórean hosts, with one particularly impetuous lord waving his hands about and using grandiose terms such as 'thunderstorm of arrows', 'decapitation strike' and 'maximum overkill' much to the derision of his peers.

All tables agreed on one subject, however. Like it or not, the reign of the Gardeners was drawing to a close. Nor were there many - or indeed any - visible Gardener loyalists around; not surprising considering the expression of such sentiments could easily cost one their head.

The guests were all seated after a while. Some haggling of seats took place, but much less than expected; the ever-shrewd Hightowers had arranged for most of the tables to be round and hence all seats appeared to be equal. Ar-Pharazôn’s table being a noticeable exception, of course, and he sat right in the centre.

Servants in Hightower colours travelled to each table and announce the menu. With little to do after entering Oldtown and unwilling to further strain the city's food supply after it was besieged for days, some of the Númenórean soldiers took to fishing when not on duty. At the same time, several of the best steel bowmen also brought down scores of wildlife during their patrols beyond the city walls. Tonight's dishes will therefore include wild boar, pheasant, and an assortment of aquatic life.

Brandon Snow extended his hand. "I am beyond honoured to meet you, Your Grace, especially in circumstances like this. We rarely have feasts in the North, and almost never on such a large scale. I heard your men were rather successful at hunting too."

"Indeed archery is a popular pastime from where we came from. Anyway, why don't you tell us more about the Kingdom of the North? I imagine the North would be very different from the southern part of the continent, and would gladly hear anything of interest about it."

Ar-Pharazôn paid close attention to Brandon's introduction of his kingdom, for such information may prove very useful in the future. The Kingdom of the North was the largest kingdom in Westeros by area, though its less hospitable northern climate meant that its population was quite low for its size. House Stark had ruled the kingdom from Winterfell castle for generations, their power over the entire region established over centuries long ago in a series of conquests and strategic marriage alliances. Furthermore, the Kingdom of the North was the only remaining kingdom of the First Men, the original inhabitants of Westeros who were slowly displaced by the Andal newcomers. For that reason, House Stark and their vassals still maintained many of the 'Old Ways' as Brandon termed it, such as worshipping the 'Old Gods' or 'weirwoods', trees with white trunks and red leaves that have faces carved into them. That said, significant Andal influence had reached even the last realm of the First Men, with the old tongue of the First Men having all but disappeared.

The North also had a very interesting geography. To the south, it was bounded by a narrow band of land known as 'the Neck', marshes between the Sunset and Narrow Seas which separated the North from the rest of continent. In fact, this very bottleneck - along with Stark military prowess - was why the First Men were able to defeat invasion after Andal invasion in the first place. A formidable fortress known as Moat Cailin stood at the northern edge of the swamp, overlooking the one causeway to the North and hence acting as a natural chokepoint. The Neck was inhabited by 'crannogmen', a primitive people who nevertheless brought much ruin to the various armies that attempted to invade the North, with their mastery of the difficult terrain along with poisoned arrows and spears. Many an Andal army had evaporated in the humid swamps and bogs in their attempts to invade The North.

To the west, the Stony Shore formed the western coastline along the Sunset Sea. As it name implied, the shore had few natural harbours with its extremely rough terrain, which helped explain the relatively sparse population in that area. The Ironmen had often invaded and even at times controlled the Stony Shore during their various skirmishes with the North, yet were unable to conquer further inland; time and time again they were forced to retreat due to lack of supplies ere the Stark armies bore down onto them. The North's eastern coastline was far more hospitable, with numerous rivers and White Harbour, the kingdom's only city which sits at the river White Knife. Pharazôn listened intently as Brandon recalled the tale of Argos Sevenstar, an Andal warlord whose forces were utterly destroyed by House Stark and their now-vassals House Bolton at the Battle of the Weeping Water. King Theon Stark then raised a massive fleet and counter-invaded the Andal homeland, burning numerous settlements in retribution.

But it was the massive structure known as The Wall that piques Pharazôn’s interest. A massive structure stretching along the entire northern border, The Wall was almost as tall as the Hightower and formed entirely out of ice, separating the civilised Westerosi kingdoms from the Wildlings, First Men who still abided by ancient custom. They chose their own leaders instead of kneeling to kings, and hence called themselves the 'Free Folk'. The North was defended from periodic incursions by those Wildlings by the Night's Watch, an organisation which had manned the Wall ever since the Long Night fell upon Westeros. "But another story for another time, Your Grace," Brandon said as he continued his description of the North. Yet at times even the Night's Watch wasn’t enough to hold back the onslaught of Wildlings, and the Starks of Winterfell had to head north with large hosts in such occasions....

Pharazôn noticed that the sell-sword was quietly staring at the Northern lord, clearly enthralled by Brandon's descriptions and stories. Or perhaps he was a man of few words; it was hard to tell seeing that the three men had just met. Brandon Snow appeared to be a rather reserved man as well, though he had no trouble speaking once the wine began to flow and he had familiarised himself with his acquaintances.

"But the Reach is rather far away from the North, if my maps are correct," Pharazôn pointed out to Brandon. "What business then brings you to the Reach?"

"Your Grace, I was tasked to investigate a matter of utmost importance by my half-brother. As mentioned before, the North's lands are not very fertile, and His Grace King Stark would prefer to see that his subjects have enough crops to survive the winter with agricultural practices from the Reach." Yet Brandon was looking warily around the room, far too concerned for someone who was supposedly interested in only farming. His gaze came to a rest upon the sell-sword. "And you, my Essosi friend. What brings you to these strange lands?"

"Essos is far too dangerous for my liking. And besides, the Reach's wine is more than enough of a reason to come to Westeros. Here, a toast!" The sell-sword exclaimed in a booming voice as he stood, raising his cup high. "To his Grace Ar-Pharazôn!"

On the other end of the table, Lord Hightower was now also on his feet, cup of wine in hand. "To the King!"

In the blink of an eye, all of the guests were had cups and glasses in their hands.

"Long live the King! Long live his men!"

"Seven Blessings to Adûnabâr!"

"At any rate, I plan to return to the North in a few days," Brandon continued after the toast. "The Reach - or Adûnabâr, as it has now become, is a beautiful land. Yet my family is waiting back at home, and I yearn to see Winterfell's walls and towers before long.”

"Very well. I'll write a letter to Torrhen Stark after the feast, I trust that you can bring it home with you?" Brandon Snow nodded, and Pharazôn turned towards the sellsword. "And you. You claim to be from Essos, which I believe, but who are you truly?"

"Your Grace, I believe I've already told you who I am. A humble man who is now seeking safer lands, after I've had enough of the fighting in Essos. There is still a lot of wars going on there, but the conflicts are too dangerous, and the pay isn't good. What's the point of risking your life if you aren't going to get adequate rewards? Besides, Essos has been going downhill anyway since the Doom little more than a century ago. Several cities had already been abandoned or sacked, and horse-nomads known as the Dothraki are rapidly encroaching on civilised lands."

As the sellsword spoke, Ar-Pharazôn bent his will towards the man to glean more information about his intent. He did not appear to be lying, at least. But Pharazôn knew far less about Westeros than he would deem sufficient, and even little of Essos which this sellsword claims to be from.

It suddenly dawned on Pharazôn that he hadn’t even asked for the sellsword’s name, an oversight which he immediately rectified.

"It's Valryon, Your Grace. I can trace my blood all the way back to Old Valyria itself through the Velaryon family; indeed, several of my kin are also trying their luck in Westeros under the Targaryen dragonlords. But I'm not so fortunate to inherit Driftmark or even the Velaryon name. House Velaryon has adapted many Westerosi customs ever since settling at Driftmark, and descent through the female line is not reckoned as heavily if at all."

Suspecting that further discussion on the sellsword himself would lead nowhere, Pharazôn turned his attention to the recent assassination attempts. "What do you make of the assassin?"

"My ship only docked at Oldtown this morning, I had barely left the docks when I heard about the crossbow incident and the city-wide search for the assassin. I decided to keep my eye out in the hope of a reward. I guessed he would most likely try another attempt, perhaps when there is less light so he wouldn't be easily spotted, which meant that he would need to be in front of Your Grace's route. I suppose he could catch up from behind, though that would be significantly more difficult. As luck would have it, the assassin bumbled into my way. So I cut the man down, simple as that."

"When we first met, you said that you arrived a week or two ago. Deceive the Lord of the Adûnâim at your peril."

Valryon abruptly set down his spoon, gulping down the soup he was sipping. "But Your Grace, I did arrive in Westeros just over a week or so ago. I visited Duskendale before taking the ship to Oldtown. Duskendale's a nice town, but I suppose Westeros' largest city would offer more opportunities..."

Pharazôn cut off the sellsword's explanation. "Misunderstandings happen. Continue with your analysis."

"I mentioned earlier that the bolts did not appear to be poisoned, suggesting that the assassin was not sent by a Dornish house. Though the Dornish might have exploited that reputation and deliberately chosen to forego poison. The Isle and Rivers are unlikely to be involved either since they are far more keen to cut Stormlander throats, and the animosity goes both ways. The Arryns largely keep to themselves and are honourable to a fault. It would therefore take a great leap of logic to pin blame on the Vale. Further north..."

"House Stark is not behind this," Brandon interjected as the main courses of the feast were served. "We have barely learnt about Your Grace's arrival, and the North has little interest in southern squabbles."

Valryon briefly nodded at Brandon before continuing. "Lord Snow is likely speaking the truth, Your Grace. Moving on, the Reach is known for its chivalry, yet there has been news suggesting that Your Grace's hosts had encounters with poisoned wells on the way to Oldtown. The Targaryens probably aren't involved either. They appear to have a vested interest in weakening the Sunset Peoples, but why send an assassin if they could send a Dragon?" Valryon laughs. "I wouldn't rule out some Reachman or noble house being involved, though the Kingdom of the Rock is another likely possibility. After all, they're very likely to be next. That's assuming the assassin wasn't acting independently in the first place; perhaps a disgruntled peasant or a relative of a soldier in the Faith Militant. Given recent events, this is not an impossible explanation.”

Having such a sellsword might be useful in the future, Pharazôn mused as Valryon explained his deductions. An interesting man who seems to harbour a few secrets, but those can be rooted out in time.

Valyron almost casually looked at the other end of the table before digging into the freshly prepared fish, a dish which suggested that the Westerosi still had much to learn from the Adûnâim, at least in terms of maritime cuisine. "Naturally the Hightowers aren't behind this, unless Lord Manfred is foolish enough to risk not only his own life but those of his sons. Ser Morgan himself is injured to the point where he is unable to attend today's feast. Similarly, the High Septon would be insane to have allowed such an event to take place, at least at that place and time."

"What about the Citadel?" Brandon asked as he reached for the red wine - a fine beverage from the Arbor, rivalling even the various draughts of Westernesse-that-was. Yet the Redwynes were defiant, and the Arbor remained to be taken. "They may have considered His Grace to a threat to their order, and neither Lord Hightower nor his sons are members of the Citadel."

"Unlikely, for the Citadel had close ties to the Hightowers ever since the order of the maesters was founded. It was Prince Peremore Hightower the Twisted, a second son and cripple, who invited scholars from many lands to Oldtown; his brother King Urrigon granted lands to 'Peremore's pets' which became the Citadel and maesters respectively. The Hightowers and their associates are almost certainly not responsible for the attempt, not least due to the high risk and grave cost in reputation."

"Sellsword, your analysis of the situation is impressive, and I have not forgotten the great contributions you rendered today. Should you desire so, you could serve in my hosts,” Pharazôn offered.

Valryon appeared to be rather reluctant, pondering the question carefully for a while. "Your Grace, your offer is much appreciated. However I do not wish to sign any contracts at the moment; most Essosi sellswords are as fickle as the wind, but I do not break my promises and do not wish to commit myself to an employer after only a day in Oldtown. That said I will be remaining in Oldtown for a while, and will consider your offer very carefully."

Slightly surprised by Valryon's answer, Pharazôn was considering his response when a servant appeared and removes the now empty plates. "Dessert will be served soon, Your Grace and my lords," he announced. "Lord Hightower has also arranged for all of the guests to meet Your Grace individually."

Table by table, the guests arose and lined up in front of the main table as they extended their greetings. Ar-Pharazôn briefly addressed each of the guests as they are introduced by Martyn Hightower. Their names blurred into each other, masters of this guild and that, lords of holdfasts great and small. Doubtlessly they were great men in their own right, yet their titles and lineages were but a trifle to the King of Men, and perhaps the reputations of some were greatly exaggerated. That is until one name piqued Pharazôn’s interest.

"Your Grace, may I introduce Lord Beesbury of Honeyholt," Martyn intoned. The man's face suddenly turned sheet white as Pharazôn struggled to remember where that name came from.


	10. Just Desserts

"Ah, Lord Beesbury. How... glad to meet you. Would you like to join my table for desserts?" Pharazôn asked in a nonchalant tone, dismissing the guards with a flick of his hand. "Just desserts, nothing more."

Lord Beesbury accepted the offer, sweat dripping from his brow. Not that he had much choice, of course, especially not after poisoning hundreds of Númenórean men at Honeyholt. The servant who announced the arrival of desserts carried another chair to the main table and set it between Pharazôn and Brandon Snow. There would be other opportunities to chat with Lord Snow, perhaps in private, before he returned to the north. But Beesbury needed to be dealt with now, and the chat with Valryon was not over yet.

Glancing down, Pharazôn saw a small lemoncake on the plate, and reached for his fork. He took a small bite of the cake, noting that while the Westerosi were not that good at preparing food, their delicacies could rival even the best he ever had in Arminalêth, or otherwise known as Armenelos. Before even Quenya place-names were all but banned ever since Zigûr set foot on the Land of Gift. However, Pharazôn suspected it would be a different matter once he left the Hightower and onto the cobbled streets of Oldtown; what little he had seen so far suggested that the average Westerosi was clearly less well-off than the average Adûnâim.

In between further bites, Pharazôn struck up a conversation with Beesbury who was trembling in his seat.

"Of course, I hope all is well with your family; I presume you have a lovely wife? And perhaps children too? Though speaking of wells, well... there's that little incident at Honeyholt. Does that ring any bells?" Without waiting for Beesbury to answer, "Of course, you understand that our little chat will continue after dinner."

Beesbury's head drooped in a fashion not unlike a beaten dog. "Yes, Your Grace."

"Good."

Having sorted out that matter, Pharazôn made small talk with Beesbury, chatting about everything from the weather to various social customs of the Reach. As he suspected from the name, the Beesburys were avid beekeepers, with their main export being honey, mead, and even honeycombs as a luxury product. Naturally the topic of poisons was not brought up, not least because it was still dinner time and such discussion might be less pleasing to one's appetite. And besides, there would be plenty of time for that later.

Pharazôn turned back towards Valryon, leaving Lord Beesbury to 'enjoy' his desserts in silence. "Take your time to consider. However would it be wise to seek out another employer? You have seen the size of my host, and that is but the vanguard of what I have brought to these strange lands. Your skills in combat are certainly admirable, yet I don't think fighting against my men would end very well for you."

Valryon finished his lemoncake. "I'll take that into account when considering my options." He said little more before the feast ended and he took his leave.

******* 

Brandon Snow pulled Pharazôn aside after the feast.

"Your Grace, you are surely aware that I won't just be here to learn about growing crops. I wish to discuss the true purpose of my visit with you, yet there are too many strange ears in the dining hall, and sharing such information would have been unwise." Puzzled, Pharazôn followed Brandon to a secluded room where the Hightowers were already waiting, along with the entire Citadel conclave.

Stepping to the centre of the room, Brandon Snow began addressing those present. "Around a month or so ago, we received a message from Lord Aegon Targaryen who declared himself as the only king in Westeros, and that he would destroy those who refuse to submit. While the Targaryens do not have a large army or indeed fertile lands, they have three dragons as the last Dragonlords descended from Valyria itself. King Torrhen was naturally quite concerned and sent me to investigate this matter, along with methods with which dragons could be defeated."

"And did you find anything of note?"

"Unfortunately not much Your Grace. Though with the help of the Citadel," Brandon paused briefly and nodded at the archmaesters before continuing, "we were able to find an account of the Rhoynish prince Garin the Great defeating three Valyrian dragons with the aid of water wizards. Yet those tales date from centuries ago; besides we have no water wizards even if the tales were true. That said, the Dornish also claim that Valyria itself responded by sending around three hundred dragons, suggesting that they were at least wary of losses, or they would not have sent such a large force if only several dragons could do the job."

"Of course, His Grace's steel bows are far more powerful than any bows we have in Westeros, and perhaps those black-tipped arrows could easily pierce a dragon's scales. If anyone in Westeros could kill those three dragons, it would be the Dornish or the Adûnâim," Lord Hightower interjected. Pharazôn raised his eyebrows, noting that Lord Hightower used the proper name of his people for the first time.

One of the archmaesters stood up from his chair. "Even if the dragon cannot be easily killed, a lucky bolt or two could still kill the rider. But this issue could be discussed later, and it's getting late in the night, surely His Grace would appreciate some rest after entering the city."

"I will be visiting Sunspear before returning to the North. Perhaps the Dornish would have a few tricks up their sleeve," Brandon announced. "My ship will be leaving Oldtown early tomorrow morning, so I don't think we will meet again until my next visit. Farewell, Your Grace." With that, he turned and departed the room, followed by the archmaesters.

Lord Beesbury was shaking as he entered the room, flanked by two Númenórean guards. His hands remained unbound, yet it was beyond obvious that his current situation was not one to be envied.

"My King, Lord Beesbury is here and ready for questioning.”

Lord Beesbury was generous with his descriptions of the poison. He called it 'tears of Lys', apparently a rare poison imported all the way from the city of, well, Lys, in Essos. Clear, tasteless, and odorless, this poison was extremely effective not only because it was difficult for the victim to detect its presence, being little different from water, but also due to these traits making it effectively untraceable. However, its usefulness was severely diminished by the exorbitant cost and rarity, and the bottle of Tears which poisoned the well represented Beesbury's entire stockpile of poison and at least a year's worth of income, more likely two. For Beesbury's desperate efforts, all it achieved was to put a negligible fraction of the Númenórean army out of commission for several weeks or even days.

But now onto other matters. "And how many days ago did you arrive at Oldtown?" Pharazôn asked.

Beesbury began counting with his fingers, repeating the process several times before finally giving up. "The same day I heard Brightwater Keep fell... was taken by your host, Your Grace. I don't remember the exact day though. Not exactly good with numbers, that's my son's domain."

Pharazôn looked at Lord Hightower who curtly nodded. "He speaks the truth, Your Grace."

Most likely so. Besides, it's not as if he has anything to hide.

"I assume your family are residing at Oldtown then? Why don't you all stay at the Hightower as my personal guests, at least until the war ends? It's probably safer that way since you aren't exactly well regarded by my soldiers at the moment; while they will follow my orders, step out of line and there won't be enough of you left to bury," Pharazôn told the shivering Lord Beesbury after making him swear an oath of loyalty.

"But what happens to me and my house after the war?"

"That will depend on your conduct in the months to come. Just like everyone else, of course," Pharazôn was now smiling at Lord Hightower. "At any rate, I imagine everyone is tired and would appreciate some sleep. Manfred, I want your spies to keep a close eye on the sell-sword and regularly notify me of his activities. My men will help, but they are too conspicuous, not least because we Adûnâim are much taller than your kind."

******* 

Feasts, meetings, and speeches, each more boring than the last. Ever since Ar-Pharazôn sent off the raven to Greyshield requesting a Faithful representative to join his court, there was little to do but wait. For the Redwynes' response, for Amandil's reports of his Highgarden campaign. And of course for Elendil's reply from Greyshield - would he send one of his family or come to court himself? Luckily, Oldtown's citizenry were still supportive of Númenórean rule even after the initial fervour of their arrival and the relief over Oldtown's fate had died down. Perhaps out of fear, if not out of love. Then of course there was the matter of the assassin, though the investigation proceeded far too slowly to Pharazôn’s liking. Who sent him, and why?

One of these days started off as usual, at least until a Hightower guard suddenly appeared just after noon. "Your Grace! Valryon... is... gone!" He exclaimed, panting all the while.

Pharazôn abruptly leapt from his seat. "When? And where was he last seen?"

"He was definitely seen this morning at a tavern near his lodgings. I was instructed to run here as fast as I could and report his absence once we noticed he was gone."

Oldtown's watchmen were doubtlessly mobilising even as this news is delivered, but Pharazôn’s experience suggested that his own Royal Guard would be more adept at finding the sellsword at large and were in constant readiness at the Hightower itself. The only problem was that their numbers in Oldtown were limited, and the sellsword would be long gone by the time a proper citywide search could be organised. Ordering the Royal Guard to split up would greatly reduce their effectiveness, but focusing on only one location would be pointless if Pharazôn guessed incorrectly.

"Where would you go if you were in his shoes?" he asked the guard. 

"The countryside or the docks, Your Grace. He probably wouldn't want to remain in the city unless he can fly, because the town guards will be watching the gates with hawk-like eyes, so his best bet would be to leave the city before he could be intercepted at the gates. But progress by land would be slow since he can't use any of the main roads, and ships depart according to schedules from the docks; he might still be there, waiting for a ship that would take him.”


	11. Valryon

Amidst frantic hoofbeats, just over a gross of men raced out of Oldtown. Messengers had been dispatched to the docks and city gates, with orders to let no ship or person depart from Oldtown until Valryon is found; furthermore, the city guard had been mobilised to detain any man with Essosi features and a missing eye. Though deep down in Ar-Pharazôn’s heart, he suspected that Valryon would have long since disguised himself if he were half competent. But he found himself back in the open lands just beyond the city limits where he and his host, ten thousand strong, had encamped only days ago. Besides the hundred Royal Guard, Lord Hightower's son Martyn was accompanying Pharazôn with dozens of Hightower men. For Lord Manfred himself was not in the Hightower when the message was first received, and the search's urgency meant that precious little time could be spent waiting for him.

"Split into three groups, one to the left, another to the centre, last to the right. Split up further if necessary, but remember that Valryon might be dangerous."

Yet the countryside was huge, and there was no indication how far Valryon could have gotten away. Many of the group were beginning to grumble about the fruitlessness of the search when one of the Númenórean guards rode to the head of your column. "There! I see something to our left, my king!" Before long, the whole company was galloping towards a shining mound. "Faster, faster!" the men cried. "He might be there!"

Suddenly Pharazôn’s horse halted, and his jaw dropped as he beheld a magnificent creature before him, clad in bright silver scales and golden eyes glittering in the sunlight. A sight not seen by Adûnâim eyes ever since the days of Azrubêl.

A dragon.

'Valryon' was mounted on the dragon's back, just behind a woman with silver-gold hair matching that of the steed. With a deafening roar and a burst of flame, the dragon flung itself high into the air as many of the spooked horses reared up, even flinging several riders onto the ground.

Some of the guards began shaking their fists in the air, frustrated at the 'sellsword' who was so near, yet just out of grasp. The few Hightower archers began nocking their bows before the King instruct them to stand down. "Don't bother. Wooden bows won't work against that beast, and I already know who Valryon is. He will be back."

Riders were sent to notify the other groups, and the company of horsemen began their slow trot back into Oldtown as the dragon flew high in the clear blue sky, leaving Pharazôn and his men behind.

*******

Upon spotting the dragon, several Targaryen servants raced towards Dragonstone's courtyard, arriving just before Meraxes landed with Aegon and Rhaenys on her back. The most senior among the servants walked alongside Aegon as he headed into the castle proper. "Welcome back Your Grace. But we didn't expect you to return so early, in fact we didn't anticipate your appearance at all. No word has come to us from the Aegonfort after all."

"I didn't expect to come back so early either, but I do not face the same Westeros as I did when landing at the Blackwater's mouth. That's all you need to know for now. Send a raven to the Aegonfort asking Orys to return to Dragonstone as soon as possible..." The Lord of Dragonstone abruptly stopped in his tracks. "I've changed my mind. I'll go to the fort myself on dragonback. Prepare all I need without delay."

The servants began gossiping as Balerion took flight, and rumours spread like wildfire when Aegon returned with Orys the next day. Why the sudden return? Why the hurry?

*******

An ornate table carved in the shape of Westeros stood at the topmost floor of the castle's Stone Drum.

Around this table, two men and a woman were locked in an intense argument over recent developments.

Orys Baratheon could barely restrain his outburst of anger, borne not out of hatred but of concern, as he stared at his friend and liege lord. "Why did you have to go yourself? You could have sent a lesser servant, even me. When was the last time I failed your orders?"

"There's always a first time. Reports of the 'Sunset Peoples', or the Adûnâim as they call themselves, are often conflicting but most agree on one point. Regardless of the exact nature of their sorcery, those newcomers to the west are no ordinary humans and possess weapons which no Westerosi has ever seen. Do these descriptions sound familiar? Those words could be used to describe us just as well as they were used to describe them, and I suspect they would be more than your match. And even I, the last Dragonlord, was hard-pressed over the course of this task. My friend, do you honestly believe you would have succeeded where I nearly failed?"

"Someday this reckless pride will get you killed!" Rhaenys exclaimed. "Who would be the next Lord of Dragonstone then since you have no heir? And what of our ambitions?"

"Do you really expect me to be killed, my beloved wife? Surely the Dragon will not be slain like sheep? We have received report after report, but how many are accurate, and how many are mere exaggerations or a smallfolk's fairy tales? How are we supposed to forge our kingdom if I don't even grasp what threats we are facing? I had to see them for myself."

The fierce debate continued even as night fell, moving to potential courses of action which may affect three lives. Perhaps three thousand. Certainly over thirty million, if the Citadel's figures were to believed. But as the moon slowly rose, discussion eventually died down and a consensus was reached.

"That's what we will do for now," Aegon announced as he beckoned to Rhaenys and began marching out of the Chamber of the Painted Table. "But there are other matters to be solved here or elsewhere. Rhaenys, didn't you mention that we lacked a proper heir?"

Under the moonlit sky, two dragons howled deep into the night.


	12. Into the Lion's Maw

After several days of travel, Lannisport loomed beyond the thick morning mists.

Small boats were lowered into the water, messengers bearing Isildur’s orders to the other ships in the fleet. Signal flags might be misinterpreted by the farther ships with such low visibility, and Isildur dared not use signal lamps; it might be best if his fleet remained hidden for now.

The messengers returned. Isildur’s flagship silently detached itself from the fleet and proceeded forward for a closer look, while the other ships prepared for combat should any surprises occur. The weather and unfamiliar geography were perfect for ambushing; anything could happen out of the blue. Or light grey for that matter.

Even with his keen eyesight, Isildur was just able to discern various features beyond the fog. Several wrecked ships, clearly of Númenórean build, were beached on the southern side of the harbour. Black-and-gold banners bearing the device of Eärendil could be spotted in most parts of the harbour, yet several unfamiliar designs were located at a small area on the northern side - golden lions, a red ox, even a quartered flag that appeared to be orange and black. Those strange banners could also be seen flying on three Westerosi ships docked at the northern side. Further beyond, the city walls appeared to be intact, flaming projectiles occasionally flying from the walls down to the southern harbour. Thick smoke rose from the gatehouse.

There was no sign that the presumed enemy was attempting to intercept or making preparations to counter the reinforcements. Given the conditions, it was quite likely that Isildur’s ships hadn’t even been noticed yet by anyone at the harbour, save perhaps a few Númenóreans looking in the right direction.

With ten thousand of Westernesse's finest warriors on her decks, the fleet inched towards Lannisport, heading towards the strange banners spotted while scouting.

The fog may be slowly dissipating, but the sun was still nowhere in sight, veiled by a thick parchment of grey that stretched all the way to the horizon. Quite a few archers appeared to be gazing hesitantly at the sky, several murmuring amongst themselves or casting worried glances at their bows - the Steel Bows may be far more powerful than anything the Westerosi could produce, yet they were no less vulnerable to water. The spearmen and men-at-arms were far less concerned; be it under sun, rain or snow, swords and spears would still carry the day.

No fires were lit, nor were any symbols displayed that could relate the fleet to their shipwrecked compatriots. But a fleet of this size was not easily ignored, and soon a wall of men could be seen lining the docks, golden lions on red cloth defying the unknown invader. But not for long.

"Steel bows head to starboard side to soften up the enemy. Swords and spears go portside so that the ship's weight remains balanced." With his men having decades or even centuries of experience, the shuffling of feet begins as Isildur finished issuing your order, dying down almost immediately afterwards. At the same time, he feel droplets of water land on his clothes and hair.

Why did Eru decide to make it rain now?

"Steel bows, nock!"

The Steel Bowmen nock, prepared to mow down those between them and their trapped countrymen.

"Draw..."

The Steel Bowmen drawed, ready to unleash a storm upon those who dared challenge the claims of Eärendil' sons to these new lands.

"Loose."

Arrows tumbled into the harbour here and there, betrayed by bowstrings snapping in half mid-shot. But more darts found their mark, racing across the water and into the crowds ashore. Then the hoarse cries and piercing screams begin, men clutching at arrow shafts emerging from naked flesh or chest-plates, throwing away shields now unbalanced by arrows embedded within; yet they had little time to do much else before the second volley struck at the now disrupted formation. Out of the corner of his eye, Isildur noticed several embroidered banners fall onto the ground, rendering various motifs indistinguishable amongst the blood and mud.

Cries of "Anadûnê! Anadûnê!" drowned out the dull thuds of armoured boots as more and more men left onto the quays. And the Faithful's banner was finally unfurled, the white tree on the device hinting at a future Isildur helped save with his very hands.

The enemy formation was broken even before the overzealous men-at-arms could have a chance at engaging them, much less the spearmen lining up on the pier. Red-cloaked enemies threw down their arms as Isildur’s men advanced. He didn’t blame the former; they had nowhere to run now that they are sandwiched between Isildur’s men and the other Númenóreans, while his bowmen did a decent job of demonstrating the futility of resistance.

With his keen eyesight, Isildur spotted what appeared to be engines of war mounted upon Lannisport's walls, most likely the source of those projectiles he noticed while scouting earlier - and possibly what wrecked his trapped countrymen's ships. To make matters worse, the once grey clouds were now black, suggesting that the torrent of rain was here to stay for a while. Already Isildur could hear the flapping sails and whistling winds. A storm was coming.

A delegation slowly advanced towards his host.

Several droplets of water lightly struck their armour, perhaps heralding an imminent downpour. Or not - for Eru's will was not so easily discerned by his Children. Undoubtedly less obvious than the Numenorean heritage of the men Isildur and his crew were about to meet.

"Take me to your captain," one of the men from the delegation stepped forwards and addressed the sentries, who pointed in Isildur’s direction.

"Aphanuzir of Andunie?" The man asked from afar, pointing at Isildur’s unfurled banner.

"Nay. I am Isildur, son of Elendil the Tall, son of Amandil. And Andunie is no more."

"We thought... we thought... we were the only ones left! Never thought I would be so glad to see the Faithful survive!" The man's face turned beet red as Isildur looked at him quizzically. "I do not believe we have met, I am Aglarân of Hyarastorni." He held out his arm stiffly, clasping it against Isildur’s.

One of the King's Councillors. Must have supported Sauron back in those days then. All of them did, save for Amandil.

"The King ordered us to bring supplies in case the Valinor invasion turned out to be longer than expected. And where is the King? In fact, who is the King?"

For all his faults, Tar-Calion just might be slightly less... delusional than Isildur first thought. A negligible difference, however, when considering what he was up against.

"Tar-Calion is still alive and well, though with a rather bruised ego I suppose. The Great Armament did survive, and so did we Faithful..."

Isildur suddenly remembered seeing civilians amongst the stranded Numenoreans, as his fleet was entering the harbour.

"Why are there women and even children amongst your group?" Numenoreans were never known for their fertility, especially after the Shadow fell upon the Isle. Besides, women clearly didn’t have their place in war, and children even less so. Hurin and Huor of old being exceptions, of course.

"The King thought of colonising the Deathless Lands after vanquishing the Valar."

Clearly no less delusional then.

"Yet the Valar seemed to have the last laugh. In nearly a century of seafaring, I've never seen any storm more fierce than the one that struck our fleet midway into the journey. I personally witnessed dozens of ships sink outright, who knows how many made it to these shores?" The weary noble paused for a moment as he gazed towards the West, bowing his head. "Anadune's gone though. Our small flotilla passed by it as we were driven east...less said about it the better."

"Aye." She-who-hath-fallen was still a memory too close, too painful to bear. "But at least some of us are still left. Enough about the past, We came here for our kinsmen, be they Faithful or King's Men, and the war has barely begun."

Isildur could not help but notice the corpses strewn along his route to Aglarân's makeshift tent. Most were natives, yet a few bore the all too familiar heraldry of Earendil. Several of the bodies were charred, others with thick bolts protruding from armour. The natives clearly had a few tricks up their sleeves.

"Thankfully none of the civilians have been killed yet," Aglarân explained. "We placed them as far from the front lines as possible, but there is always the chance of a lucky hit from the enemy's engines."

Aglarân estimated the city had at least five thousand well-equipped fighting men, in addition to the thousands of civilians who took up arms to defend Lannisport. Days of fighting had produced an uneasy stalemate - the stranded Numenoreans were too few in number to break through the port gate and storm the city, while the native 'Westermen' charges were beaten back time and time again with heavy casualties. Yet Numenorean slain were also increasing and supplies dwindling, while Lannisport could continue to be supplied through land, and the stalemate was clearly shifting in the latter's favour until Isildur and his men arrived.

Isildur looked at the port walls looming just beyond the Númenórean barricades. His men could take the city, but how many men of Andustar would have to die assaulting Lannisport’s gates with ad-hoc battering rams and hastily built ladders? Then the refugees would still need to be taken care of, and an entire city’s population would need to be fed. And there was still the matter of finding the other scattered ships. To make matters even worse, a storm was coming, and Isildur knew very well from his service in the King’s hosts that bowstrings, even those of steel bows, fair very poorly in the rain.

Lannisport would be taken. But not today.

Massive flames engulfed the wrecks in front of Lannisport’s harbour, ensuring that no ships of the Sunset Peoples, even wrecked ones, would fall into the hands of the Westermen. As the sun’s last rays licked the blood-soaked land, the lion of Lannister still lay over Lannisport’s limestone ramparts as lewd insults and loud war-cries were levied by the Westermen at Isildur’s leaving fleet.

The fleet arrived at Feastfires just as the downpour began. Yet another battered ship of Númenórean make lay tethered to the small dock, yet no Númenórean could be seen, only a trail of blood leading up to the nearby castle suggesting their possible fate. 

“Blood for blood!” Aglarân roared as he leapt onto the dock, his sword stabbing the sky as if he meant to fight off the storm itself.

“Blood for blood!” A thousand swords sprang up into the air. “Abârada Azrubêl! Abârada Ar-Pharazôn! Abârada Adûnâim!” Cheering the morning-star and their king, a small host of two thousand men rushed towards the castle. Isildur had barely managed to make landfall himself when he saw the silhouette of falling men, and flames licking the walls of the small fort, fire and smoke shooting toward the heavens.

As Isildur finally sprinted into the castle’s dining hall, deftly sidestepping groaning men clutching at their spilling entrails, Aglarân was shaking the banner of Eärendil right at the local lord’s face.“The blood at the docks. Are those shed by the mariners on that huge ship bearing this device?”

“Aye,” the noble responded, shaking, but the sword now resting on his throat prevented more words from being muttered. 

“And for that, you shall die.” Aglarân lifted the sword off the noble’s neck, but the latter’s reprieve proved to be short, for the sword came down once again with great force and cleaved his head from the body in one clean stroke. As the head bounced off a nearby table, Aglarân slowly turned towards Isildur. “Blood calls for blood! They slew our men. Defiled our women. Slaughtered our children. But they are now avenged!” Aglarân hollered. 

Isildur silently pointed towards a side-door of the dining room. A young boy and girl stood in mute horror as they stared at the noble’s headless remains. Behind the two were a small group of men, women and children, several bearing bandages and slings, but all dressed in fresh garments. One man bore a makeshift banner bearing the Star of Eärendil.

“Papa! Papa!” the girl wailed as the lifeless head finally came to a stop right between her feet. With a heart-rending howl, the boy charged at the nearby Isildur, swinging his small wooden sword as he skidded across the blood-soaked floor tiles.

“Aglarân.” Isildur whispered as he gently pushed the boy away with one hand, his other palm resting on his face. “Why? Just… why?”


End file.
